burtoncummings

IT WAS 1969 AND THE GW WERE IN LOS ANGELES TO PLAY A COUPLE OF SHOWS AND PROMOTE "CANNED WHEAT" WHICH HAD JUST BEEN RELEASED ON RCA...WE WERE STAYING AT THE HYATT HOUSE (RIOT HOUSE) ON SUNSET. THERE ARE STILL BILLBOARDS ALL OVER LOS ANGELES TODAY FOR ENTERTAINMENT FUNCTIONS AND PERSONALITIES, BUT BACK IN 69, THEY WERE ALMOST ALL MUSIC BILLBOARDS. AND THE ONES ALONG SUNSET WERE THE MOST PRIZED IN THE INDUSTRY.
I KNOW WE HAVE A DAY OFF, SO I'VE POPPED A SMALL BLOTTER OF ACID THAT MORNING, JUST WANTING TO ENJOY A DAY IN L.A. IN THE "HEADSPACE OF JM" WHO, I HAD READ, WAS IN THAT PARTICULAR MENTAL STATE QUITE OFTEN.
I CHECK INTO MY ROOM AND I HAVE A BALCONY OVERLOOKING SUNSET, DOWN UPON GENERAL L.A. (I AM 21 YEARS OLD)... I HAVE A FRONT ROW SEAT FOR THE BILLBOARD ACROSS THE STREET...MILDLY TRIPPING BY NOW, I CASUALLY STROLL OUT ONTO THE BALCONY TO GET A VIEW OF DOORS-LAND...
AND THERE'S THE BILLBOARD...RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY BALCONY...RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYES...
AND, I SWEAR THIS IS NO LIE, GUESS WHAT THEY'RE PAINTING ON THE BILLBOARD...
UNDER COMPLETELY NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES THIS WOULD HAVE BLOWN ME AWAY...BUT ON ACID...GOOD LORD...
THEY'RE PAINTING A BILLBOARD FOR "CANNED WHEAT" AND THEY'RE PAINTING EACH OF OUR FACES INDIVIDUALLY, OVER 20 FEET HIGH...
THEY'VE JUST FINISHED RANDY, AND I'M ON ACID, AND THEY'RE STARTIN' ON ME...
I MUST SAY, IT WAS A SITUATION OF VARIED EMOTIONS...ONE OF SHOCK, FOR SURE, ONE OF MILD DISBELIEF, AND ONE OF "WELL, EITHER THIS IS THE BEST ACID IN THE WORLD, OR I'M IN A VERY SPECIAL PLACE RIGHT NOW IN TIME..."
AND THERE I SAT, HALUCINATING VIOLENTLY ON MY OWN FACE BEING PAINTED TWENTY FEET HIGH IN FULL COLOUR OVERLOOKING SUNSET BLVD. IT WAS ALMOST TOO MUCH...WE WERE ALWAYS TOLD BACK IN THE HIPPIE DAYS TO "STAY AWAY FROM THE MIRROR ON ACID"...TOO DEEP...WAY TOO SCARY...WELL THIS WAS FAR DEEPER THAN THE MIRROR...AND IT WAS FAST...THESE BILLBOARD GUYS DON'T FOOL AROUND...I WATCHED EVERY STROKE WITH FASCINATION AND THOUGHT ABOUT THE MEANINGS OF MANY, MANY, MANY THINGS...WHEN THEY FINISHED WITH ME, THEY STARTED ON EITHER KALE OR PETERSON, CAN'T REMEMBER WHICH BY NOW...I HAD HAD MY "TRIP" FOR THE DAY...I GOT AWAY FROM THE BALCONY AND WENT OUT WALKING. WHEN I RETURNED TO MY ROOM LATER, THERE WERE THE FOUR OF US, ALL NICE AND IN COLOUR AND TWENTY FEET HIGH ON SUNSET BLVD. MY, MY, MY...
OH WELL, JUST ANOTHER LITTLE BLOG ABOUT THE EVERYDAY GOINGS ON IN THE CARTOON LIFE OF JELLY ROLL KIRKPATRICK...

GL & GH...
LITM...
PEACE HERE...

B.C.

Canned Wheat Billboard, Los Angeles 1969 MySpace Blog Post w/ comments

Here are the lyrics from Sanity. Its a new song that will be featured on Above The Ground.

OH...SANITY...HUMANITY
DID YOU TAKE A STEP BACKWARD
WERE YOU MISSING IN ACTION...TEMPORARILY...
OH...SANITY...HUMANITY
WON'T YOU TAKE A STEP FORWARD
COME BACK FOR YOUR CROWN
AND STOP ALL THIS THAT'S GOIN' DOWN...

I REMEMBER NOT TOO LONG AGO
I COULD WALK THE STREETS UNAFRAID NO MATTER WHERE I'D GO
NOWADAYS IT SEEMS, THE WAY IT ALL STANDS,
IS IF I'M WALKIN' I'M TAKIN' MY LIFE IN MY HANDS...
I REMEMBER WHEN OLD PEOPLE WERE COOL
NEVER HIT UPON, MOCKED, MAIMED OR RIDICULED
THERE'S YOUNG FOLKS TERRIFIED NOW, ALL THE TIME...
TOO MANY CRYIN'...THERE'S TOO MANY DYIN'....

SANITY...HUMANITY...
DID YOU TAKE A VACATION
WERE YOU MISSING IN ACTION...TEMPORARILY...
OH...SANITY...HUMANITY
WON'T YOU TAKE A STEP FORWARD
COME BACK FOR YOUR CROWN
STOP ALL THIS THAT'S GOIN' DOWN...

HATE YOUR NEIGHBOURS AND CHEAT YOUR FREINDS
THERE'S NO REGARD FOR THE WAY IT ENDS
LIFE IS SO PRECIOUS YET IT'S BARTERED SO CHEAP
IS THERE ANY DIGNITY AT ALL TO KEEP...
NOT TOO LONG IN THE DISTANT PAST
I HAD SOME VALUES I THOUGHT MIGHT LAST
BUT ASHES LIKE DUST ARE ALL THAT'S LEFT OF THE COALS
THE FLAMES WERE THE CRIES OF A BILLION SOULS

SANITY...HUMANITY...
DID YOU TAKE A STEP BACKWARD
WERE YOU MISSING IN ACTION...TEMPORARILY...
OH...SANITY...HUMANITY...
WON'T YOU TAKE A STEP FORWARD
COME BACK FOR YOUR CROWN
STOP ALL THIS THAT'S GOIN' DOWN...

I FOUND OUT THE HARD WAY
THERE WERE SCORES AND SCORES OF SCORES TO SETTLE
I WAS FIGHTING WITH THE WRITING ON THE WALL...

Sanity Blog Post on MySpace

THIS ONE IS A SONG...JUST BANGED IT OUT TONIGHT...SOUNDS PRETTY GOOD, I THINK...IT'S A 6/8 KINDA FEEL...LOTTA HARMONIES...THIS CAME FAST...SOMETIMES GOOD ONES DO...

"LETTERS FOR FREE"

HE WAS CENTURY BOUND WITH A TROUPE OF RENOWN
THROUGH A SKY THAT WAS BLUER THAN SEA...
AND WHEN QUESTIONED ABROAD, HE WOULD QUIP WITH A NOD...
"SIR, I MARKET MY LETTERS FOR FREE...
YES, I MARKET MY LETTERS FOR FREE..."


THERE WERE SHIPS WITHOUT SAILS, THERE WERE SILVERY RAILS
THERE WERE HOPES THAT WERE NEVER TO BE...
BUT AS DARK AS THE RAIN, HE'D REPEAT THE REFRAIN...
"SIR, I MARKET MY LETTERS FOR FREE...
YES, I MARKET MY LETTERS FOR FREE..."


(Bridge}
IF THE MOOD WOULD BE RIGHT HE COULD CONQUER THE NIGHT
AND THE KINGS COULD BE BROUGHT TO THEIR KNEES...
BUT THE QUESTION WAS SUCH IT DEMANDED TOO MUCH
IT'S THE QUESTION THE HEART NEVER FREES...


IN A LIFETIME OR TWO HE WAS DEEMED TO BE THROUGH
THOUGH NO UNSPOKEN PAGE COULD AGREE...
NEVER DOUBTING HIS WORTH, SAID A MAN OF THE EARTH
"SIR, I MARKET MY LETTERS FOR FREE...
YES, I MARKET MY LETTERS FOR FREE..."

B.C. JULY 31 2008

CHEERS ALL...

Letters For Free MySpace Blog Post

JUST FINISHED A FULL DAY AT BERNIE GRUNDMAN'S MASTERING STUDIOS IN HOLLYWOOD. THE STUFF SOUNDED GREAT !!! JOE AND I WILL LIVE WITH THESE FINAL DISCS FOR ABOUT A WEEK, DECIDING IF EVERYTHING FLOWS WELL AND IF ALL IS BALANCED WELL, MAKING EACH CUT COMPATIBLE WITH EACH OTHER.
THE SEQUENCE SEEMS TO WORK WELL TOO...UP IN THE CANYON IS FINALLY AS MUCH "IN YOUR FACE" AS ALL THE OTHERS.
BERNIE IS A LEGEND IN HIS BUSINESS...GOOD GRIEF, THIS IS THE GUY WHO MASTERED "THRILLER"...AS WELL AS COUNTLESS OTHER LEGENDARY ALBUMS THROUGH THE YEARS. HE ALSO HAS A STUDIO IN JAPAN. HIS WALLS ARE FILLED WITH GOLD AND PLATINUM AND MULTI PLATINUM AWARDS...THE PLACE IS LIKE A MINI HISTORY OF POP MUSIC.
AND HE PERSONALLY LIKED THE ALBUM...SAID THAT JOE AND I "REALLY KNEW WHAT WE WERE DOING"...HIGH PRAISE INDEED FROM ONE OF THE MASTERS...
ALL IN ALL, A VERY, VERY GOOD DAY...
ATG IS ON THE WAY...
GL & GH...
LITM...
PEACE HERE...
B.C.

Mastering of Above The Ground MySpace Blog Post

I KNEW SOMEDAY THE MUSIC MIGHT GET EVIL
I KNEW SOMEDAY I'D BE A HELPLESS PAWN
I KNEW SOMETIME THAT I'D BE JUDGED WITH SINNERS
CAN'T GO ON...CAN'T GO ON...

I KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO KILL A MEMORY
I KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO STAY ALONE
I DON'T EXPECT A LOT OF FOLKS TO LIKE ME
DON'T MATTER NOW, THEY DON'T MATTER NOW

I KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO SHARE YOUR SPIRIT
I KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO TRY AND TRY
I KNOW HOW CRUEL IT IS WHEN THINGS GET SHAKY
AND YOU CRY, AND YOU CRY...

HARD UP, HARD UP FOR AMUSEMENT
WHEN YOU TURNED, YOU TURNED TO THE DARKER SIDE,
YOU WERE NEVER MEANT TO UNDERSTAND THE THINGS THAT DRIVE YOU
AND THOSE QUESTIONS AND THOSE QUESTIONS
THEY CAN TEAR YOU DOWN...

I KNOW HOW ENVY DOES THE STRANGEST DANCES
I KNOW HOW EASY COMES THIS THING CALLED PITY
I KNOW HOW YOU CAN RUN
CITY TO CITY
LOOKIN' FOR PITY............

BRIDESMAIDS...
THE ONLY SOLUTION...
ISN'T IT AMAZING...?

IN A CAR, ON A FREEWAY
THERE'S A PRIEST WHO'S CRYIN', A PRIEST WHO'S DYIN'
IN A GRAVEYARD BENEATH A FULL MOON
I SEE A BLACK CAT LYIN' WITH ITS THROAT CUT

I KNOW HOW AGE CAN WEAR THE MASK OF WISDOM
I KNOW HOW EASY IT IS TO STUMBLE TOO
SO MANY QUESTIONS THAT YOU CAN'T GET NAPPIN'
IT'S TRUE...IT'S TRUE...

I KNOW HOW SHITTY IT IS WHEN FRIENDS WILL USE YOU
I KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO GROW UP TALL
I KNOW HOW LOSERS CAN JUST TURN YOUR WORDS ROUND
TILL YOU FALL...TILL YOU FALL...

I KNEW SOMEDAY THE MUSIC MIGHT GET EVIL
I KNEW SOMEDAY I'D BE A HELPLESS PAWN
I KNEW SOMETIME THAT I'D BE JUDGED WITH SINNERS
CAN'T GO ON...CAN'T GO ON...

I KNOW HOW HARD IT IS WHEN FRIENDS DESERT YOU
I KNOW THAT LOVE BECOMES THIS THING CALLED "PITY"
I KNOW HOW YOU CAN RUN YOU CAN RUN
CITY TO CITY...LOOKIN' FOR PITY...

I KNOW HOW AGE CAN WEAR THE MASK OF WISDOM
I KNOW HOW EASY IT IS TO STUMBLE, TOO...
TOO MANY QUESTIONS AND YOU'LL NEVER GET NAPPIN'
IT'S TRUE...IT'S TRUE...
YEAH...IT'S TRUE...
YOU KNOW IT'S TRUE...

Ponderlust Lyrics MySpace Blog Post

TOOK A BREATHER TODAY FROM VIDEO LAND, AND PAID A VISIT TO KOPPS MUSIC, A LITTLE STORE ON QUEEN ST. HERE IN TORONTO...BOY OH BOY OH BOY OH BOY...DID I FIND SOME GREAT STUFF. KOPPS IS RUN BY A BRITISH GUY WHO'S JUST AN OBSESSED COLLECTOR. HIS ASSISTANT CHRIS HAS BEEN WORKING WITH HIM FOR YEARS. I'VE FOUND GREAT STUFF THERE BEFORE AND TODAY WAS NO EXCEPTION...TODAY, AMONG OTHER THINGS, I GOT...

BABY SITTIN' BOOGIE-BUZZ CLIFFORD (THE WHOLE ALBUM ON CD, PRETTY GOOD PRESSING)

NOT FADE AWAY-3 DISC BUDDY HOLLY BOX, INCLUDING SPOKEN RADIO PROMOS AND SEVERAL INTERVIEWS, ONE OF WHICH IS WITH RED ROBINSON FROM VANCOUVER

MULE SKINNER BLUES-FENDERMEN-RECENT CD COMP WITH 27 TRACKS !!!

STEVE LAWRENCE-THE DEFINITIVE COLLECTION-BOOTLEG WITH OLD SPARTAN TRACKS AND LATER STUFF ON COLUMBIA...ALL THE RADIO STUFF STEVE HAD...

WES DAKUS AND THE REBELS, VOLUMES 1 AND 2...I FORGOT HOW GOOD THOSE OLD INSTRUMENTALS WERE...STUFF WAS ALL DONE IN EDMONTON IN THE EARLY SIXTIES.

MOUNTAIN OF LOVE-HAROLD DORMAN-ENTIRE ALBUM ON CD... (1959)

BABY CAN ROCK-DOROTHY COLLINS-COMP CD WITH 31 TRACKS !!

BYRDS LIVE AT ROYAL ALBERT HALL 1971 (EASY TO FIND, BUT I NEVER HAD IT BEFORE)

YOUNGBLOODS-GREAT RE-PRESSINGS OF THE DEBUT ALBUM, EARTH MUSIC, AND ELEPHANT MOUNTAIN, ALL IN ONE THREE PACK...GREAT STUFF...JCY WAS A HUGE INFLUENCE ON ME...WHAT A VOICE !!

GOODBYE COLUMBUS SOUNDTRACK-THE ASSOCIATION

GOLDEN AGE OF AMERICAN POPULAR MUSIC (JAZZ HITS EDITION)-28 TRACKS

GOLDEN AGE OF AMERICAN ROCK AND ROLL NOVELTY EDITION-30 TRACKS

GOLDEN AGE OF AMERICAN ROCK AND ROLL VOLUME 11

GOLDEN AGE OF AMERICAN ROCK AND ROLL FOLLOW UP HITS EDITION

GOLDEN AGE OF AMERICAN POPULAR MUSIC (HARD TO GET BILLBOARD HITS FROM 1956-1965)

I HAD SOME OF THIS STUFF BEFORE, BUT MOST OF THESE I GOT TODAY ARE LATER PRESSINGS AND THEY SOUND JUST GREAT IN THE GOOD SONYS. ALSO GOT A DVD OF THE MOVIE "ROCK, ROCK ROCK" STARRING FRANKIE LYMON, LA VERN BAKER, CHUCK BERRY, THE MOONGLOWS AND THAT THIEF ALAN FREED...OH YEAH, ALSO STARS JOHNNY BURNETTE TRIO AND TEDDY RANDAZZO...RARE STUFF...

LOVE THE COLLECTING...ALWAYS DID, ALWAYS WILL...

CAN'T STAY HERE NOW AND TALK...I'VE ALREADY PUT ALL THESE GOODIES INTO MY I POD AND NOW I'M GOIN' FOR A LONG WALK WITH THE GOOD SONYS...FANTASYLAND...

GL & GH
LITM
PEACE HERE
B.C.

Treasures MySpace Blog Post

DID THIS LITTLE DITTIE WITH THE FROGS IN '04 ONE NIGHT IN DIZZY'S STUDIO IN TORONTO. I'D FORGOTTEN ABOUT IT TILL SAM SENT THE TRACK LAST NIGHT...ROCKIN' OKAY I'D SAY...IT WAS ORIGINALLY DONE BY ARC ANGELS ON THEIR ONE AND ONLY TREMENDOUS ALBUM (AT LEAST IT'S THE ONLY ARC ANGELS ALBUM I EVER HAD).
WE ALSO DID A J.J. CALE SONG THAT NIGHT (LOWDOWN) BUT CASPER BOYD TALKED ME INTO SINGING IT A CERTAIN WAY THAT I DIDN'T WANT TO, SO THAT'LL REMAIN HIDDEN FOR A WHILE YET.
IT'S BC ON THE FIRST VERSE, NICKY ON THE SECOND AND THE TWO OF US ON THE HARMONY LINES. WE'VE REPLACED UM UM FOR NOW, BECAUSE A FRIEND FROM THE MARITIMES HAS ONE WITHOUT THE GLITCH...LATER FOR THAT...
MIGHT GET THE FINAL OF "PRETTY PICTURES" UP SOON, BECAUSE AFTER VIEWING COUNTLESS VIDEO TAKES OF IT, I REALIZE I HAVE TO SING IT BETTER YET FOR THE FINAL ALBUM...NO REST FOR THE IRRESPONSIBLE...LOL...
HOPE YOU LIKE THE NEW CUT...WE'RE CHANGING THEM ALMOST DAILY NOW, SO STAY TUNED...
GL & GH...
LITM...
B.C.

ONE DAY SOON WE'LL UNDERSTAND
BEFORE WE'VE GONE TOO FAR
ONE DAY SOON WE'RE MEANT TO SEE
EXACTLY WHO WE ARE...

ONE DAY SOON WE'LL UNDERSTAND
WHEN THE STORY'S TOLD
ONE DAY SOON WE'RE BOUND TO KNOW
IT WILL ALL UNFOLD...

FIGHT FOR WHAT'S RIGHT AND FIGHT FOR WHAT YOU'VE BEEN GIVEN
CHASE THE DISBELIEVERS AWAY
ONE DAY SOON OUR LIGHT WILL SHINE
WE WILL FIND OUR WAY...

WE HAVE THE MEANS AND WE HAVE THE POWERS
WE CAN CHASE THE DARK SIDE AWAY
ONE DAY SOON OUR LIGHT WILL SHINE
WE WILL FIND OUR WAY...
ONE DAY SOON OUR LIGHT WILL SHINE
WE WILL FIND OUR WAY....

FROM THE ALBUM "PLUS SIGNS" 1990 CAPITOL / EMI RECORDS

THIS IS NOT FICTION...THIS IS A TRUE EXAMPLE OF LIFE'S RICH PAGEANT...


THIS EVENT HAPPENED ABOUT 1978 OR 1979...MY FRIEND JACK DANIELS (ALTON DILLS) WAS PLAYING WITH A COUNTRY BAND AT A PLACE CALLED THE HOLIDAY...I THINK THAT WAS ITS NAME, AND I THINK IT MIGHT'VE BEEN IN PACOIMA, BUT I'M NOT 100 PER CENT SURE RIGHT NOW. ANYHOW, THAT DOESN' T REALLY AFFECT THE STORY.
MY FRIEND DANN ROGERS (KENNY'S NEPHEW) AND ONE OF HIS FRIENDS AND YOURS TRULY ARRIVE AT THIS BAR ABOUT NINE OR TEN AND PROCEED TO WATCH OUR FRIEND JACK ON STAGE...
A FEW MUSICAL NUMBERS GO BY AND THERE'S A SCUFFLE AT THE BAR...
SOME GUY HAS INSULTED OR HIT ON ANOTHER GUY'S GIRL...THE GUY WHOSE GIRL IT IS PULLS OUT A KNIFE AND STABS THE GUY WHO HAS JUST HIT ON HER...THE STABBED GUY PULLS OUT A GUN AND SHOOTS THE GUY WHO'S JUST STABBED HIM...THE BULLET GOES RIGHT THROUGH THE KNIFE-GUY'S SHOULDER, OUT THE BACK SIDE OF HIS BODY AND INTO THE HEAD OF ANOTHER GUY WHO HAPPENS TO BE STANDING AT THE BAR...
WE ALL HEARD LATER THAT HE WAS DEAD WHEN HE HIT THE FLOOR.
MANY OF US DUCK AND TURN TABLES OVER FOR "COVER" (YOURS TRULY BEING NO EXCEPTION) AND THE GUN-GUY, WHO IS BLEEDING PRETTY GOOD BY THIS TIME EXITS THE BAR TOUTE DE SUITE...


THE POLICE GOT HIM LATER, AND APPARENTLY DEALT WITH ALL INVOLVED.
OUR PARTICULAR PARTY WAS NEVER CALLED UPON TO TESTIFY, A BLESSING UNTO ITSELF.
I HAVEN'T REALLY THOUGHT ABOUT THIS INCIDENT FOR QUITE A WHILE, BUT I THOUGHT I'D TYPE IT DOWN AND READ IT MYSELF...
JUST ANOTHER EXAMPLE OF HOW ONE NEVER KNOWS WHAT'S AROUND THE CORNER.
WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM ALL THIS WAS YET ANOTHER REINFORCEMENT OF THE SANCTITY OF LIFE...THE GUY WHO DIED THAT NIGHT HAD NO IDEA WHEN HE LEFT THE HOUSE THAT HE WOULD NEVER GET BACK THERE...
LIVE IN THE MOMENT...
GL & GH...
B.C.

I SPENT SOME REAL QUALITY TIME WITH iHAWK ONE NIGHT AROUND THE TURN OF THE CENTURY...WITHOUT TRYNA SOUND LIGHT IN THE LOAFERS, I IMMEDIATELY BONDED WITH THE GUY AND WE SPOKE AND DRANK SOMEWHAT LIKE THE LEGENDARY WELSH MEN AND IRISH-ERS AND SUCH AND LAUGHED AND SWORE LIKE MINERS AND DRANK SOME MORE AND...WHAT CAN I SAY...THE HAWK STIRRED UP SOME SLOWLY BURNING EMBERS IN ME ABOUT WORDS ON PAPER...HE HIT ME RIGHT IN THE NUTS THAT NIGHT WITH HIS TALK OF WRITING...I'VE BEEN WRITING POEMS AND STORIES AND SONGS LYRICS AND DIARIES AND GENERAL BULLSHIT FOR YEARS, AND HAD BEEN BEFORE THAT NIGHT...BUT HONEST TO "WHAT I PERCEIVE TO BE GOD" THAT NIGHT HAS NEVER LEFT ME...I'M ALWAYS FLATTERED WHEN SOMEONE SO SHARP HAS REALLY LISTENED TO MY LYRICS...COME ON FOLKS...WHO WOULDN'T BE... SO NOW ON WITH IT...I'M WRITNG THIS NO MATTER WHAT...IT'S A SMALL EXCERPT FROM "THE ADVENTURES OF VICHKY AND THE COLLECTOR" AND IT'S JUST A STARK LOOK AT THINGS, BORROWING READILY FROM REAL LIFE, BUT PARAPHRASING ALONG THE WAY TO BE GENTLE WITH SPECIFICS AND AT THE SAME TIME TO AVOID LITIGIOUS SHENANIGANS...HAWK TOLD ME "WRITING IS MAKING THE READER SEE THE PICTURES"...I NEVER FORGOT THAT...AND NOW I'M TRYING...
THANKS AGAIN GLEN...YOU'RE A BETTER FRIEND THAN YOU EVER MAY REALIZE...
BLESSINGS ALWAYS TO YOU FOR GIVING ME THE GUTS TO PUT THIS UP HERE...
AND NOW..ON WITH THE SHOW...



Well...time marches on...as surely as income taxes and the Easter Parade, "time stalls or waits for no man..." and that includes the Collector. Some goof from the porn section of the San Fernando Valley had sucked him dry of what little nest egg he had stored away during a few brief weeks of sobriety and optimism. Seems this "Fern" guy (that was the only name he ever gave) had shmoozed the Collector into selling his top-notch, near mint number 1 issues from the vaults of his considerable comic book collection. The plan was, if they could put their hands on a few hundred thousand quick cash, they could buy this three million dollar yacht that had been seized during the bust of a Malibu movie producer. Since the yacht had been bought with the spoils of an international heroin deal later exposed by the FDA, it was going up on the auction block to the public at one tenth its actual value. "Fern" knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy whose sister had once boffed one of the roadies for Foghat, and he considered himself quite worldly for this. One pitiful night, over a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue (approximately forty-five dollars a shot), "Fern" had the Collector right where he wanted him. He talked and slurred about how many more gorgeous near mint Superman and Batman and Flash and Wonder Woman and Justice League and Little Lulu and Rex the Wonder Dog and Congo Bill and Mystery in Space and Strange Adventures and World's Finest and Jimmy Olsen and Detective and All Star and Robin books the Collector "could" and "should" and "would" have if he just jumped at this golden opportunity.
"Fern"was sleazy...he was good...knowing full well that the Collector was an old hippie, "Fern" reminded him of how Starbuck's had been founded by a "coupla goofs from Seaddlle"
The Collector was sold...he jumped in...
Fast forward four or five weeks...the phone doesn't ring...there's no news...there's no yacht...there's no more nest egg...there's no more "Fern" . The sole material thing that had ever meant anything at all to the Collector was gone...his collection of number 1's.
Fast forward another four or five weeks...guess what, boys and girls...Margaritas !!! AND LOTS OF 'EM !!!
Only this time, the Collector was using them to wash down blue valiums...10 mg's at a time, several times a day.

One night in the early eighties, he had gone to a country bar in Reseda to see a friend playing keyboards. There were maybe eight or ten people in the audience. Over in one corner of the bar was a small, strange man...he almost looked like an elf...or Rumpelstilskin or something. With him was a black bodyguard about the size of a Cadillac Escalade. Being somewhat of a people watcher, the Collector eyed this odd couple for a while. He noticed the small man swilling something clear. It could have been water, but it was in fact white rum. Every so often over a one hour period, he would put a small round blue pill on his tongue and swill it back with the white rum.
The Collector was fascinated. After a few very fast beers, he went over and introduced himself, just to ask the small man what kind of pills he was taking. It was, of course, none of the Collector's fucking business, as he quickly found out.
An immediate argument ensued during which the small man shreiked repeatedly...
" I'm Phil Spector, you prick...asshole...fuck you !!! The Collector responded with something an impostor would probably not recognize...he said "Yeah...and I'm Bobb B. Soxx" .

Phil Spector had produced an album for an R&B group called Bobb B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans, circa 1962. This remark from the Collector further enraged the small man, to the point where somehow the bodyguard's suit jacket just happened to open enough to reveal a sizeable gun. The Collector started hearing an old Ray Charles song in his head...HIT THE ROAD JACK...he drove himself home half in the bag, shaken up, adrenalined, and a bit pissed off. Upon arriving home, he dug out a Rolling Stone book of some of the most famous people in Rock History. Therein was a picture of Phil Spector...and sure enough, it was the small man...the same guy. (Early in the new millennium, Phil Spector was formally charged with the murder of some Hollywood strumpet up at his mansion...when the press photographed him being arrested and led out in handcuffs from the castle, he was wearing a bright lilac coloured shoulder length wig. (New trial and verdict still pending.)
Had fate dealt slightly different cards, who knows...

That little incident, recalled decades later in the tequila soaked cerebellum of the Collector, spiked him onward to start doing blue valiums with his Margaritas.
GIMMMMMMNNNNNUTHHHHERRRRRMRGRTA!!!!!!!
GIMMMMMMMMNNNNNNUTHHHHHERRRRMRGRTA!!!!!!!!!!
Here a blue one, there a blue one, everywhere a blue one.
He was starting to get thrown out of the seediest bars imaginable. Heroin addicts were embarrassed for him. His bowels loosened. He felt prone to shit his pants from time to time, but he would usually change them shortly afterward... in his world, that was a definite gauge of accomplishment. He considered himself a "bit of a party boy" and perhaps a "functioning drinking man" ...a little voice kept telling him that he was "just like Phil Spector" .
One night the Collector was in his local Seven Eleven getting some porn movies and a bag of Cheetos when he saw a girl "wrestling" with the Canada Dry clock on the wall. Having had fourteen or fifteen Margaritas and three or four valiums before he left home, the Collector just blurted out "Hey calm down, fer fuck sake..."
As quick as a hairband reunion the girl turned, focused directly on the Collector and slowly reached into the inside pocket of her windbreaker...frozen with fear, the Collector couldn't move, certain that she was reaching for a gun...he thought for several nano seconds that he was about to die, or "in the act of dying..."
The girl pulled out not a gun, but a full unopened beer...she flung it full force at the Collector's face...it could have easily blinded or killed him had he not used some of his old instinctive goalie moves. The angels helped him turn his head in a fraction of a second...he took the bottle in the lower rear of his skull, the one place on the head where Mother Nature has graced man with the maximum amount of protection..
He would get an instant concussion and lose consciousness and be taken to the hospital for many stitches...but in that fraction of a second, he focused on the face of the girl who could have killed him...he trembled, as if for a year...as he lost consciousness from the impact of the bottle, he was shattered in mind as well as body...this couldn't be true...the girl...it was Vichky !

The Collector awoke slowly and painfully to the repeated sound of a Dr. Blight being paged over an intercom. He had an intervenous needle drip going into his left arm...the lights were fluorescent and sterile, the walls colourless...he was in a hospital bed...
Lying in a pool of his own sweat, blood, and piss, he tried to piece together the events that had led him to where he was. A homely, elderly nurse with a white uniform that matched her white hair bent over him and said "Hello, dear...you've had a rough time of it..."
   She proceeded to tell him how they had been digging brown glass out of his scalp for the last two hours.
In any concussion (a blow to the head that causes unconsciousness) there is a procedure that all doctors and nurses must follow after admitting the patient. In order to determine there is no brain damage, every hour on the hour the patient must be awakened. Then the doctor or nurse must scratch, poke or tickle the soles of the patient's feet and monitor the reaction. Then he or she must take a solid object such as a pen or pencil and wave it slowly back and forth in front of the patient's face. The patient is advised to follow the object with his eyes. In this way the medical staff can evaluate whether there has been any damage to the eyes or part of the basic motor skills.
The Collector was in no mood for any of this bullshit. Reality was beginning to return to him all too quickly. He clearly remembered the Margaritas and the valiums. He'd been having a Hell of a good time all by himself, listening to the Strange Days album over and over and over again while pummeling his body and brain with tequila and valium. He should have been in considerably more physical pain than he was, but his remorse more than made up for that. The all-too-dreaded REMORSE...guilt-ridden and disoriented, he wished for Hell...it would doubtless be an improvement...
There was a slight ringing to every sound he heard. This was accompanied by small, bright "Tinkerbell dust" flashes of light and colour whenever he moved his neck. He felt like a bag of some drunk's insides...he'd been here mentally before, but this time he was more confused...almost scared. And then an immense lightning bolt of memory struck him..."Vichky...I'm in here because of Vichky..."

Only a few short summers previous, he and Vichky could be seen strolling through the park, on their way to one of those bandshell concerts, the night and the vibe being almost "perfect".
Back in "the day" , when he had first laid eyes on Vichky, she was hanging all over the lead singer of a community club band in the prairies. This guy was about a "sixty per cent singer"...reasonably in key, but no real individual style or chops...just a singer...you know the kind...Hell, anybody can sing, but will people wanna hear it...at any rate he had great hair and a restored '57 Chevy Bel-Air, and that was more than enough for Vichky. The Collector was stricken with her that night upon first glance. Asking around a bit, he found that she was known to be "pretty loose with the band boys" . Aaaahhhhh Vichky.....she always had stars in her eyes and would gladly trade some of her "wares" in order to keep them there.
The Collector saw her again, mostly on purpose, just by showing up at all the gigs where her boyfriend's band was playing. After a few weeks of this Hell and longing, a vicious rumour emerged about this singer-boy of Vichky's. And then they all found out that it was true. Yes, he was a singer, but he was an RCMP undercover officer who could carry a tune and was "placed" in his band situation to bust as many musicians as he could. He smoked pot with them, did acid with them, did mushrooms with them, drank with them, probably even got into the "white lady" with them, gained their trust, and then turned them all in. He even went so far as to bust two members of his own band. His name was Andy Taylor...yeah...just like the Sherriff of Mayberry...
These were the days when you still went to jail for a few marijuanna seeds. One of the Collector's friends had done six months hard time living, eating and showering with murderers for a speck of hash that no hash smoker with any self-respect would stoop to pick up today...almost overnight, t-shirts sprang up in the "ungerground" community that said "Kill Andy Taylor". It was ravaging to the bands around town. Several of them lost key players who went to jail, and never resumed their momentum again.
There are several fine musicians today who, because of Andy Taylor, have never been able to set foot on U.S. soil during their entire careers. Andy Taylor ruined lives.
He testified in private, brought the hammer down, and was never heard from or seen again. Vichky was horrified. People started treating her like pond scum. Boys were afraid to talk to her, especially musicians. The stigma attatched to her by Andy Taylor would be tough, if not impossible to overcome.
Enter the Collector...
He was right there when she needed somebody. He said a lot of funny things, liked the same kinds of food she did, swore like a hockey player (as did Vichky), and pillowed her fall from grace. It was the kind of romance you only see in the movies. They became tight...tighter than either of them had ever been with someone else. Life was good...
A friend of the Collector had won $3.2 million in the lottery. He and his fiance had a penchant for adventure, so they decided to charter a  Learjet and spend a few days (and a few dollars) in Paris. Chris and Sandi decided to ask the Collector and Vichky to come to Paris with them...here again...just like the movies. And so off they went in search of some kind of elusive buzz.
They checked in to an old hotel called the Elysees Star, just off the Champs Elysees. The Tower was a short walk away. The Arc...the Louvre...the Seine...the Wine...things were perfect. Seemingly so, but even the best angora sweaters can and will unravel.

They decided to visit Per La Chaise, the vast cemetery where so many luminaries are buried. Chris wanted to see the resting place of Chopin and Sandi just wanted to see Chris seeing it . They decided to walk, drinking in the gorgeous sights and smells of an early evening in Paris. Upon turning the next corner whom should they bump into, literally, but Roman Polanski. He was quite drunk and had lipstick smears on his cheek and neck. Chris had actually bonked heads with Roman and was apologizing profusely for being such an idiot.
The Collector was stunned...he'd been a movie fanatic ever since his mother had first taken him to the Deluxe Theatre in the fifties to see "King Solomon's Mines" . He could quote the lines from hundreds of films, knew about directors, producers, writers, studios...how it all worked...and here he was standing on a Paris street corner with Roman Polanski. He remembered seeing a Polanski film called "The Tennant" , in which Roman had starred as well as directed. It dealt with that "moment of truth" to which we all inevitably slide with every breath we use up...that all-revealing moment when all questions and confusions become simple truths...the passing over...the moment of death.
The film had scared the living shit out of the Collector when he had first seen it. He slept with the lights on for over a month afterward. He flashed on having seen "Repulsion" , a twisted, riveting Polanski film in which a young Catherine DeNeuve walks down a dark narrow hallway while arms reach out of the walls trying to grab her. He remembered "Rosemary's Baby" which Polanski had filmed in the Dakota years before John Lennon was killed right outside. Oh yeah, Polanski was a living legend...top echelon film royalty... and here he was in the flesh, tipsy, and seemingly unoccupied.

Chris wanted to take him in for a drink or some food or get him a cab or something...the Collector spoke up loudly "oh you three go on ahead to Per La Chaise...I'll get Roman home and meet you there by Chopin's grave" ...(OPEN GAS CAN...ADD FIRE...!)
And so, off went Chris, Sandi, and Vichky to see where "all the famous people were buried" and the Collector helped Roman in to a small bistro just up the road.
The Collector was at a bit of a loss as to how to "make conversation" with Roman Polanski. But Roman had had a few and was warming up to the idea of having a few more. He asked the Collector "have you ever had a Paris Brown..." ?
"No, what is it?" was the reply.
Roman proceded to give his personal endorsement to a brown French beer that no one else seemed to know about. He ordered a couple each for himself and the Collector.They each "power drank" the first one, never stopping to breathe. After a good swill of the second one, the Collector just had to blurt out what a fan of Roman's work he was. (The minute he'd said it, he felt like Chris Farley on SNL when he spoke to Paul Mc Cartney and made a blithering fool of himself). Roman didn't seem to mind the praise. They sucked down the remainder of the second Paris Brown and Roman ordered two more each. The bartender had recognized him by this time and was hopping around to be of the utmost service to the great director...Can we see what's coming here...?

The collector was in Heaven with the gates shut...he was swilling Paris Browns with Roman Polanski in a bistro in Paris...power drinkin'...Roman was now slurring badly in French with a Polish accent...some whore in the corner was painting her toenails while her large Great Dane sat under her table, getting up to shit from time to time...
When the Collector would drink with someone else, he tended to get overly friendly and start "toasting" just about anything. He and Roman had already shattered two glasses clinking them for an idiotic, drunken soliloquy. Big drinks, big ideas. Big drinks, fading inhibitions. Big drinks, big changes. Big drinks, big plans. Big drinks, big buddies. Roman and the Collector were getting loud. Not that this was the classiest place in Paris, but they had long since "crossed the line" and were swiftly heading for another one. "Fuckeeeng Franshhhh...." Roman screamed..." dey are a people widowt a hhhharrrrttt..." "Fuckin' rights, ehhhh" screamed the Collector..." iddzzz dooo baaddd Hitler didden finnnisshhh them allll offff when he had the ssshhhaaannnncccce..."  
Right about this time, the bartender had heard just enough. "You two...out !" "FFFFUKKKOV an ged uzz zum brownz " shouted Roman at the top of his lungs. Both he and the Collector were bodily removed from the bistro, scraping their faces when they landed on the cobblestones.
Roman began laughing hysterically...he had just the right idea about where he and the Collector should go. "Come witt me" . And they were off in a cab to somewhere in the old part of town. Roman told the Collector that he knew a couple of girls who "liked to stay up pretty late" . The Collector was well aware of Roman's penchant for young girls. Christ, that's why he was living in Paris in the first place.  Roman was nominated for Oscars several times, but could only watch on French television. The Collector was "real good drunk" as his friend from Oklahoma used to say. Per La Chaise and Chris and Sandi and Vichky seemed light years and universes away. He was in Paris with Roman Polanski and they were on their way to see a coupla snuggies. The cab took them to a building that looked like "A Tale of Two Cities" . Chances are it had been there that long. Roman led the Collector up two flights of creaky, dimly lit wooden stairs and they walked up to a door that had a number 7 on it. Knock, knock, knock...aaahhhhh.....a bit of French bantering went on and Roman began taking off his pants...the Collector liked all this. Things were moving fast. He was eyeing some French cognac on the shelf above the fireplace and one of the girls poured him a huge glass. Glop. Man...that was the real thing. She poured him another huge one. Glop. His throat and stomach burned and his eyes took him back to the days when he'd done so much acid. Things were rockin'. Apparently these girls weren't hookers, just wild young sluts who thought they might get a part in Roman's next movie...or something like that...gee...I wonder what ever gave them that idea...The Collector and the girl named Hanna were now alone on a couch. She was very sexy. She was very young. He was very drunk. She brought out a small pill box and handed the collector a small round disc. It said "Rorer" on it. Jesus, Lord in Heaven, he hadn't even SEEN a qualude for years. When he'd done them in California in the late seventies, they had always made him sloppy and clumsy. He always had bruises on his body the next day.
He'd walk into walls and fall down a lot...and then laugh hysterically until he would sometimes piss his pants. Just a little, though...never enough to have to change them. Without thinking twice, he popped the qualude into his mouth and swilled it down with more cognac. Rock and roll...
The birds and the traffic both initiate the morning in Paris, and those were the sounds that first stirred the Collector from his near-coma sleep. He hadn't "gone to sleep" per se . He had fallen down at some point. Caked dry blood clogged his nostrils. His hand was cut. He was dangerously dehydrated. He could spit dust. Trying to focus his eyes, he rolled over, sat up and looked around. He had no clue as to where he was. Not the slightest idea... He'd been so bagged when he'd driven there and arrived, that his early morning brain hadn't put all the pieces back together yet. Then he remembered Roman. Or so he thought. Then he remembered Hanna. Oh yeah, he sure started remembering Hanna ! Still no thoughts of Per La Chaise, though...or Chris...or Sandi...or Vichky. OH CHRIST ! VICHKY !

Now it was nine thirty in the morning. The Collector was alone. No Roman. No girls. The Cognac and qualude had literally taken him somewhere else and he had absolutely no fucking clue what he had done when it all hit him. Not one single god damned recollection ! Hearts begin to race in situations like this. The Collector's heart was no exception. He knew he was in the throes with Vichky, let alone the couple who had flown them both overseas. It was going on ten o'clock in the morning, and he began to panic. What was the name of the goddammed hotel!? Alicia Starr ? The more wide awake he got, the worse things looked. The cut on his face was from being tossed out of the bistro. The bloody nose and the cut on his hand were from the qualude and cognac.
He was still partially dressed, so he figured things couldn't have gotten too far out of hand. Yeah right...things were just fine. Wonder how Chris and Sandi and Vichky made out at Chopin's grave. "gotta get to the hotel...gotta get to the hotel...gotta get to the hotel...gotta get to the hotel...gotta get to the hotel...gotta get to the hotel" ...he said it about two hundred times, like a mantra. Well, he still had his wallet and a few hundred francs. That should be enough for a cab...yeah, sure, it would be enough. He tried to clean himself up a bit, scraping and washing the dry blood from his nose and hand. The cut on his face was deep...it had dried and sealed already, so there would be no hiding it. Outside he walked for a while, trying to follow the noise of busier streets. He finally hailed a cab. When the driver asked him where he wanted to go, he couldn't remember the name of the hotel ! "Oh God...Jesus...ummm...Alicia Starr? something like that...Alicia Starr."   "Oh yes...the Elysees Star, just off the Champs...yes sir." The twenty minute drive seemed like a decade to him. His heart racing, he started to count silently in his head. He started counting the blocks as they passed. Then he started counting the number of people on bicycles. Then he started counting dogs. In a self help course he'd once taken, this was one of their primary exercises to calm a person down and seek some serenity.
The cab turned another corner, and suddenly there was the Hotel. Breathing was important now. Just breathe...just breathe...the hangover, the dehydration, the guilt and remorse, the cuts and bruises...there was no series of clever lies yet invented that would cover all this up. With shaking, sweaty palms, he counted out enough francs to pay the driver, and slowly walked in through the glass front door and up to the registration desk. "Yes, could you call Mr. Swann's room please...Mr. Chris Swann..."  
"Oh I'm sorry sir, they checked out at about seven a.m. this morning..."  

The dull whine of the Lear jet was almost comforting to Vichky as she dumped another of those small bottles of Crown Royal into a thimble full of Diet Coke in her glass. Chris and Sandi were asleep, exhausted and pissed off...Vichky was on her fourth fast Crown Royal and she continued to work on her buzz, getting more angry and irritable as the Canadian whiskey flowed down her gullet. "That fuckin' scumbag", she thought. "I should have known better than to leave him alone with a drunken Roman Polanski. I'm a fuckin' idiot... What the Hell was I thinking?"
She was already furious and she still knew nothing aobout Roman and the Collector's trip to Hanna's apartment. Sandi had gotten a telegram urging her and Chris to return home immediately, as her mother had suffered a serious stroke. They'd gotten the news at about five in the morning. None of them had any idea where the Collector was, and they had no time to start combing the streets of Paris to look for him. Chris had booked a private jet to get them home immediately, and at six in the morning Vichky was in no mood to stay in Paris alone in her room, "hoping" that the Collector would calmly stroll in after his meeting with Roman.
She thought she had finally met a man who was "everything she always wanted", and after the nightmare with Andy Taylor, the Collector had been all of that and more. But she had never seen him really drunk in all their time together. She didn't really know him...or the OTHER him...the guy who, after enough drinks, could change into another creature completely. It was pricisely this behaviour that had cost him his first marriage.
Long before meeting Vichky, the Collector had been married and divorced. He'd been living with his wife on a farm about fifty miles outside of town and working as an on-and-off sound technician for two or three local bands.
About a year into the marriage, he began staying overnight in town several nights a week, giving his wife the lame excuse that "there was so much business to take care of." After several weeks of this, the Collector's wife just showed up one night at the communal house where he was staying with one of the bands. She found her husband in bed with a stunning 17 year old black dancer. There were empty beer bottles all over the floor, and cut lines of coke on a mirrored table beside the bed. The Collector's wife wasted no time getting a good lawyer with regards to "mutual property". And he found himself single again... and considerably less well-to-do. It was fast, ugly and unexpected.
He'd never really been "with" anyone else since then until he and Vichky hooked up. Because of the previous lumps he'd taken, he'd been on his best behaviour throughout his entire relationship with her, and she'd let herself fall for him without ever knowing the danger that lurked just beneath the surface.

Well...it seems that all it took was some Paris Brown with Roman Polanski to bring Devil Boy back to life. Somewhere in the back of her mind Vichky almost "hoped" that there was a semi-serious reason for his not showing up at the cemetery. At least this would eliminate the possibility that she had hooked up with another loser. But it was never meant to be...and as the jet sleeked its way back across the endless Atlantic she was coming to realize this more and more. Another Crown Royal...this time, no coke, just ice. "Fuck him"...she found herself saying, over and over again, much like the Collector's "gotta get to the hotel" mantra. She was now drunk and her venom took on another tone entirely. A mean drunk is twenty times more negative than a mean sober person. She was fanning the flames now and scanned her whiskey soaked synapse banks...partly for a way to really fuck his life up, and partly for a semi-sane explanation of what had happened to him. The pilot said softly over the intercom, "We're just off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, now, and if you look out the left side of the aircraft you'll be able to see them in a minute or two." The jet hit some turbulence, spilling whiskey on Vichky's jeans. "Fuck this" she thought..."I'm gonna get some sleep..." And off she went to dreamland...whiskey dreamland.


Meanwhile, back in the city of lights, the Collector was scrambling. His three travelling companions had left him no note, and deservedly so. He didn't have much cash with him...and only one credit card, most of which was maxed out since their trip. It was still too soon to assume that they were back in North America, so phoning any of them would be useless. He decided to try to get a flight back. An old friend whom he had known since high school had once told him that "all actions have consequences". That phrase seemed untypically suitable for his current set of circumstances. He took a cab directly to Orly International and started walking around looking for an airline that would take him back to where he needed to be..

 All he could afford was a stand-by ticket on Air Canada, direct from Paris to Toronto. He could connect to home from there he hoped. He waited nervously at the gate while several other people were called up to the counter ahead of him for stand-by seats. "Please God...Please..."
   Just at the moment when he thought he would never get on the flight, his name was called and he managed to get the last available seat. Row 51, right at the rear of the aircraft. Christ, this would be awfully different from the style in which he'd flown over. Oh well, at least it was direct. One takeoff and one landing...and then...?????
   With the gate and front door of the plane just barely closing behind him, he sloppily made his way down the long thin aisle to Row 51. There was his seat...right between an old lady who had oxygen tubes in each of her nostrils, and a slovenly German man in a bad suit that was far too small for him. This fuckin' guy LOOKED and SMELLED Aryan. He could have been a recruiter for the boys in "American History X"...Just what the Collector needed right now. God was pissing in his mouth.
   The flight home promised to be a real party. In the row directly in front of them was a woman with her three year old twins. The twins were quite possibly the two worst behaved children in the free world. The plane hadn't even begun to taxi away from the gate and these two fuckin' whelps were already shrieking and snivelling and kicking their seats and slapping each other and kicking their seats and wiping their noses and kicking their seats and ripping the puke bags to pieces and kicking their seats and shrieking and screaming some more...some days you just can't get a break.
   We all make our own beds. It's how we sleep in them that makes us who and what we are...isn't that what people had always told the Collector ?
  Right then, he would have shot those twins without a moment's hesitation if he knew he could get away with it. He thought of them as a waste of good oxygen. It's no small wonder why he had never had any children of his own. Fuck, the planet was crowded enough already, he thought. In the not too distant future there wouldn't be enough food for everybody, so why not start "thinning out the herd right here and now"...Hell, we could start with these two...
   Oh how he longed for a deep, untroubled sleep. Some hard liquor might just do the trick. Upon second thought, he decided to drink a lot of water. He hadn't eaten in over thirty hours and wasn't about to. He had terrible cramps from the qualude, and his empty stomach would just devour any alcohol he might put into it. In this shape he could be raving drunk almost immediately...and so for the time being, rational thought prevailed.
   In the seat to his left "Shultz" had just fallen asleep and now he began to snore. His mouth opened wider and his jowels drooped like a Kraut Cocker Spaniel. His breath would have knocked eagles from the sky as his head began to droop to his right onto the left shoulder of the Collector. "Grandma Air Tubes" just slumped against the window of the plane, fast asleep in an O2 dream of some kind. "Okay" he thought..."am I gonna try to concoct some insane story or am I gonna tell the truth...?"
   Either way he lost...and what kind of story could cover up or explain away all the cuts and bruises ?
   There's no need to dwell in great detail on the next few days of the Collector's life...suffice to say that the Paris incident had been the end of him and Vichky.
   By the time he'd gotten home, Sandi's mom had died and funeral plans were being made. He walked up to Vichky and was about to blurt out some sort of "I love you" phrase when she cleared her throat of all the warm mucus she could she could force up into her mouth and spat in his face...then she kicked him in the balls...very, very hard...so hard in fact, that a year later he was forced to have an operation wherein they cut open his nads and bled or drained some sort of "blister" or "seal" that had formed on his left testicle. A painful few seconds that became even more painful a year later.
   For a few weeks afterward Vichky had hung around town, avoiding him like the plague. She ran around with a few bands, started REALLY ENJOYING her Crown Royal, made a fool of herself in public a couple of times, and suddenly disappeared. She'd shmoozed  some record producer out of enough money to open Vichky's Vinyl, an eclectic record store that dealt mostly with old vinyl albums...but the bigger stores forced her out of business. About that time, she'd up and sold everything she owned and moved to Spain.

   The Collector couldn't dwell any further on ancient history. Paris now seemed like another lifetime. Christ, did he hurt. His head...he felt the base of his skull, poking at the bumps the 27 stitches had made in his flesh. Here he was in the hospital, "all stitched up and no place to go..."   But what had happened to the girl he still loved so deeply ? What was she doing back in town ? How had she sunk to the depths of almost killing someone in a Seven Eleven ?
   If he'd known the whole story, the real story, at that precise moment, he probably wouldn't have believed any of it. Vichky had lived a hundred lifetimes since her days with the Coillector. She had been completely strapped for cash, so she did something she'd sworn to herself she'd never do...she became a hostess at a Keg restaurant. She'd always considered herself above that sort of thing, much the way Leona Helmsley had regarded paying taxes..."taxes...oh they're for the poor people...". Vichky had always thought of those hostess girls as mindless bits of fluff, using their looks to get by while they kept their heads as shiny and empty as possible. But winter in the prairies can be cold and dark and long, and with no cash whatsoever it can break your spirit. One of the girls she once lived with had gotten a sizeable government grant to pursue a career in the arts. People who knew her all said that she got the grant because she was Native, but during her first year in college she seemed to be putting forth a genuine effort. It was the second year when Heaven fell. VIchky's roommate Allie started drinking and doing pills. She literally pissed away her grant in one summer...one continuous party. When the second semester came upon her, she was dead broke and experiencing violent mood swings. She was different...
   So different in fact, that one night Vichky came home to the apartment and found Allie in the bathtub in about a gallon of her own blood. She had slit her wrists and was very, very dead. Vichky had always feared becoming that weak...even for a second. It only took Allie a few deep strokes to end it all and go somewhere else. Allie had done it with gusto. This was no fake, wimpy call for help. She had seen a movie once about a cult and in that film one of the leaders was preaching to the followers about slitting one's wrists..."across for the hospital, up for the morgue"...those words had never left Allie, and when her moment of truth came she remembered them all too well. She had taken the blade and gone upwards from her wrist to the back of her elbow on both arms. It must have been fast, because the first arm would have spilled a tremendous amount of blood before she even got to the second one. Vichky was the one who called 911...and then the morgue. She would never get over this.
   It shocked her and it hardened her. For the first time in her life she saw finality. She saw the whole circle completed. Allie had tossed her life into the garbage.
   Vichky tried to go back to the Keg after a few days off, but she was never the same. She could no longer deal with the customers. She flew into small rages, triggered by the most menial things. Her friend had been doing a lot of "E" before she died and she had left a few hits in her pillow. One night after far too many Crown Royals, Vichky downed one, more for curiosity's sake than anything else. She threw up a bit, but then settled into a "warmth" that she had never felt before in life. She loved everything. Existence was warm orange. Life was Pudding... Clouds... Kleenex...
   For the first time since Allie's death, Vichky felt no pain. And then she started philosophizing to herself that Allie had left the "E" there purposely. She felt closer to Allie. She cried. She laughed. She desperately wanted people to hug, but she wouldn't dare go out on this new buzz. For several hours she surfed through space, feeling all along that Allie was right there with her.
   The crash was so bad the next day that Vichky jumped right back into the night before. Three very fast Crown Royals and another hit of "E".
   Love again. Clouds. Kleenex.Warm Water... And that's just how easily patterns form. She could have been a  poster child for disaster. Just about that time she met Reggie. God, he sorta looked like Reggie from the Archie Comics.
   Smooth guy...almost a bit too slick. Thin. Rich. He had a very smooth, high-end jean store downtown and he played fast. Vichky was drawn to him. Hypnotized. In no time at all she had moved in with him and was "helping to run the store".
   Reggie had a coke habit the size of New Mexico. He snorted all the time, no matter what else he happened to be doing. Over a period of time, he started playing around with some very heavy people. The jean store was going down the drain and good ol' Reg had gotten in far too deep with strangers. At one time, he and Vichky were sitting with a full size antique pirate's trunk full of cocaine. Enough to finance a small guerilla army.
   Both Reggie and Vichky reached a point where they were too spaced to keep things straight. Some very bad boys came over one night and "tuned them both up real good"...
   To this day Vichky suffers from migraines...several tissue operations have covered most of the scars, but the headaches are frequent. After that she hardened completely. Life had given her a suit of armour that now allowed her to let things roll, no matter where her actions took her.

She had always kept a diary, even since before computers. She wrote poems. It was an outlet for some pent up emotions and she saved all the words and poems...stacks of papers. One day one of her casual girlfriends was over and she noticed a pile of crumpled papers. They were Vichky's poems...about twenty of them. Kerry started reading one of them out loud...she liked the cadence of the words and the visions. She read another. And then another.
Visibly excited she said "You know, Vich, I play a little guitar. I'd love to work with you on some of these...maybe turn them into songs..."
She had a beat up old Gibson Hummingbird with her. She grabbed it out of its case and played a series of simple chords for Vichky. Not knowing anything about music, Vichky was very impressed.
"I've got a million of 'em " Kerry said. "I just need your help with the words." And that was the beginning of a slide that no one could have imagined.
They would get together two or three times a week after that, smoke a little weed, and piece together what they hoped would become songs. One afternoon during one of these sessions, Kerry said "We should do some rocks, Vich...ooohhh, the rocks...you can't imagine what they'll do for our creativity...!"
And out came a small glass pipe...and the rocks...
And there it was...as simple as that...and that first song...Lord God in Heaven...it had worked !!!!!!!!!!! If only that first song hadn't worked...but it did. Some sleazy band guy friend of Kerry's heard them singing it one day and immediately wanted it for his band. Promised to "turn it into platinum".
Well, as has been proven over and over again, time makes no sense. Here they were a coupla snuggies doin' crack and some band guy wants their first attempt at a song. Farrrrrrrr tooooooooo
fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkinnnnnnnn eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeasyy....
We don't even wanna fast forward here for a couple of breaths...
WHHHEEEWWW.

ALMOST CRIED...WELL, MAYBE DID A LITTLE BIT...SHAME ON ME...I THINK OF ALL 19 RIGHT NOW IN EARPHONE LAND, THE ONE THAT IMPRESSED ME MOST WAS "DREAM"...YOU KNOW SOMETHIN' CLUBBERS, HAWK CALLED THIS YEARS AGO...DAMN...HATE TO GIVE HIM ALL THAT CREDIT...HE'LL BE IMPOSSIBLE TO LIVE WITH...CLUBBERS, YOU'RE GONNA LOVE "DREAM"...
ATG IS ON THE WAY...WOW...RIGHT NOW I'M TYPIN' AND HEARIN' CANYON IN MY GOOD SONYS...WOW...I REALLY MEAN "FUCK" BUT THEY TELL YOU TO KEEP YOUR STUFF DOWN A BIT ON THESE CHILD ACCESSIBLE FORUMS...
LOOKIT ME...DRINKIN' PABST BLUE RIBBON, COMMITTIN' THE SIN OF DRINKIN' AND BLOGGIN' AND STILL ARROGANT ENOUGH TO USE THE WORD "FORUMS"
SURE STILL GLAD I TOOK TYPING IN HIGH SCHOOL...IN GRAD TEN I ONCE DID 450 WORDS IN 5 MINUTES WITH NO MISTAKES...I EVEN SAVED THE PAPER I WAS SO PROUD...NOW "A TOUCH OF MORNING IS PLAYING IN MY SONYS"....SEE THIS IS JUST LIKE WE'RE ALL PARTYIN' TOGETHER (AT LEAST IN MY HEAD)...PRETTY GOOD TYPIN' FOR SEVEN BLUE RIBBONS...EH? (CANADIAN FRIENDS CHUCKLE AT THIS POINT)
HE IS REMINDED OF A BLOG HE WROTE SO LONG, LONG, LONG AGO ABOUT HOW THIS CERTAIN "CYBER PLACE" MEANT SO MUCH TO HIM AND THEN "RETRIBUTION" CAME ON IN HIS HEADPHONES REAL LOUD AND INSTANTLY HE SAID "FUCK THE FAITHFUL...I GOT SERIOUS SHIT TO LISTEN TO..."
WOOOOPEEEEEEE
OH OH..."REVELATION" IS PLAYIN' REAL LOUD FOR ME NOW IN THE SONYS...KNOW SOMETHING...I NEVER EVER IN MY LIFE HEARD ANYBODY RHYME "DA VINCI" WITH "WOULDN'T BUDGE AN INCH HE" BEFORE...
I MUST BE GETTING BETTER...
LOVE YA ALL, BUT I GOTTA SEE IF THERE'S ANOTHER COLD BLUE RIBBON...AND THERE PROBABLY IS...HAH..,.,WHAT A PARTY ....ME AND US IN THE CLUBHOUSE WITH ME HEARIN' ATG ON THE GOOD SONYS.,..
ATTITUDE OF GRATITUDE HERE....
WE ARE LUCKY...
B.C.

I'M HERE AT BLUE MOON JUST FINISHING UP KURT'S SONG AND MAYBE ROLLAWAY THIS EVENING, THEN IT'S TIME TO GET READY FOR THE ROAD...THIS IS MY LAST DAY/NIGHT HERE UNTIL AFTER SOME OF THE SHOWS, AND QUITE HONESTLY I HAVE TO GET AWAY FROM ATG FOR WHILE. THE LAST FEW WEEKS HAVE JUST MELTED INTO EACH OTHER...I HAVEN'T BEEN THIS TIRED IN YEARS...SERIOUSLY. BUT THEN, A REALLY GOOD ALBUM SHOULDN'T BE EASY TO MAKE...IF IT WERE, EVERYONE WOULD BE MAKING ALBUMS...YOUR SUPPORT AND FEEDBACK HAS CONTRIBUTED TO THIS ALBUM IN MANY WAYS, NOT THE LEAST OF WHICH HAS BEEN SPURRING ME ONWARD EVERY MORNING WHEN I'VE HAD TO DRAG MYSELF OUT OF BED AND DRIVE BACK OUT TO BLUE MOON...GOOD GOD...WE STARTED THIS ALBUM ON JANUARY 11TH AND IT'S JUNE...
IT'S ALMOST DONE...OUT OF THE 19, I THINK WE HAVE FINAL "KEEPER" MIXES NOW OF 16 OF THEM...IN LATE JUNE WE'LL FINISH THE LAST FEW MIXES AND THEN WE'RE BOOKED TO MASTER IT IN EARLY JULY...NO OFFICIAL RELEASE DATE YET, BUT THAT'LL BE DETERMINED WHEN ALL IS DONE (COVER, BOOKLET, MASTERING ETC.)
WHEN I GO TO EARPHONE LAND LATE AT NIGHT AND CLOSE MY EYES AND ALMOST HEAR IT AS IF IT ISN'T ME, I TEND TO THINK IT'S PRETTY GOOD...YOU ALL HAVE HAD A SMALL TASTE OF IT HERE ON THE PLAYER, BUT BELIEVE ME WHEN YOU LISTEN TO ALL 19 BACK TO BACK (ABOUT 78 MINUTES) IT REALLY DOES COVER A LOT OF GROUND.
IT'S BEEN THE PRIMARY FOCUS OF MY LIFE FOR THE PAST WHILE. I KNOW IT'S ONLY AN ALBUM, NOT THE CURE FOR WHAT AILS THE WORLD, BUT WE ALL HAVE TO FOCUS ON WHAT MEANS THE MOST TO US AND THIS IS WHERE I FIT IN.
IT'S BEEN UPLIFTING TO HEAR ALL YOUR RESPONSES TO THE NEW STUFF, LYRICS AND ALL...
THANK YOU ALL...I REALLY DO FEEL AS IF A LOT OF US HAVE GONE THROUGH THIS TOGETHER.
AND AS FAR AS THE CLUBHOUSE IS CONCERNED, YES IT IS VERY CATHARTIC FOR ME. MAKING ATG WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN NEARLY THE SAME FOR ME IF I HADN'T BEEN ABLE TO CHECK IN HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AFTER LONG DAYS AT BLUE MOON.
GOOD GRIEF...A LOT OF PRESSURE...THE EXPECTATIONS ARE SO HIGH...I ONLY HOPE THE ALBUM LIVES UP TO THEM...
IT'S GETTING CLOSE TO BEING DONE AND I LIKE IT PRETTY MUCH, SO I GUESS THAT'S THE FIRST PRIORITY...BECAUSE IF I DON'T LIKE IT, IT WILL NEVER BE RELEASED...I JUST WON'T PUT SOMETHING OUT THAT I'M NOT PROUD OF...
FAR TOO OLD TO HAVE SOME PIECE OF SCHLOCK OUT THERE THAT'LL EMBARRASS THE HELL OUT OF ME IN A COUPLE OF YEARS...
THANK YOU ALL FOR TAKING THE TIME TO VISIT HERE REGULARLY AND EXPRESS YOUR FEELINGS...
"WOH WOH, TIME KEEP RUNNIN' 
GETTIN' MY STOPWATCH WOUND...
WOH WOH, MOON OR SUNNIN'
DAY AND NIGHT'LL BOTH BE
DAY AND NIGHT'LL BOTH BE
KEEPIN' ME ABOVE THE GROUND..."

GL & GH ALWAYS...
LIVE IN THE MOMENT...
B.C.