Femme Fatale at the Trocadero

This beautiful woman with a German accent walks in throught the Strip entrance. She was no stranger to the weird and elegant. The Trocadero was just the place for her to hang out. She'd met Bob, Mick and Keith both had a thing for her, as did Lou Reed and John Cale.

No wonder. She was a doll.

**********************************

Anyways, the house lights had dimmed, as Billy Eckstein takes the room. Accompanied by Earl Hines' "Grand Terrace Orchestra" all Pig could think was "Man, can they wail and baby do they bop." The Pig was taken back from his daydreamer's nirvana. Billy was big stuff, the real deal.

"Gosh," thought Pig. "Hearing Billy sing "Stormy Monday" really gets me, strikes me to the heart. Where does that beautiful Baritone crooner sound come from?"

Where indeed...
***********************************

But the beautiful German gal was where everyone else's attention was. Even Peter and Allen were roused by her presence. She cut the perfect figure in this club of glamour, this Nico woman. Funny, sounds like Nitsa. But, none the less, she was a star in the night's crown.

Disco was still a few years away, though some could hear the soul and funk starting to slip in under the door. Tonight Eckstein still held court.

Nico sat at the side bar, escorted by Andy. He was the king of Pop, an artist and a music producer. Many laughed at his personna, but he died and Southeby's took 9 days to auction all he left behind. Sorry. That jumps ahead too far.

Anyways, Andy had a Gin Fizz and Nico had Stoly with a Red Bull chase. Lou Reed was still somewhere in Manhattan, probably lost on the subway. John Cale had gone home to Whales.

**********************************

Leo sat in the cold mountain gloom, energized by the day's chill. Snow sat on the nearby peaks as the sound turned to spirit. What happens when the rattlesnakes lose their skin? The rocks tumble down and groove, riling the already hibernating bears.

Swoop, swoop. Rock, rock.

I digress from the Trocadero tale for a moment. XM is playing an updated "Alice's Restaurant", a mere 38 Thanksgivings later. Arlo sounds mature, more like his dad than ever before, yet young as the all-american kid that tilted with Whitehall Street back in the day.

Anyways, It's a time to be thankful, to reflect on how little grace is earned and how much given.

Life and family and friends... all that cliche stuff is forever real and. Add to those salvation, redemption, the ability to walk into tomorrow with some sort of confidence that all is right with this twisted and crazy world in spite of our human failings and foolishnesses. Throw in joy and happiness and the ability to make new relationships and, well, there's a lot to be grateful for.

Last week my family and I trekked to Gilbert, AZ, current home to Kirstie and Marc and young prophet Elijah. We've wanted to meet them since their recent relocation from the Republic of Texas. Add to the mix the fact that the Pondering Pig and the lovely Patrushka would be there and we had no choice but to make the journey.

It's funny how many years of age, thousands of miles of distance, and millions of seconds of experience can separate people and yet...

...and yet it's somehow like meeting yourself. I don't mean literally, maybe more like a reflection. It's meeting someone you can comfortably refer to as brother or sister. You know the same history and it affected you in the same sort of ways. When you can share recollections of good, bad, heartbreaking times and know them as similar experiences is a wonderful thing and that's what happened to us all the other day.

I've given up long ago the belief in fate or chance. It's more like a God ordained moment. Sometimes we just fail to recognize where those moments come from because we become so self absorbed we miss what is going on around and in spite of us. Me and the Pig and our families were destined to someday meet. Not just because of those ways we are the same but because of the ways we are different as well. We had fun and laughed a lot, those belly laughs that are for real and not just polite twitter between people thrown together for a few moments of uncomfortable relating. Nope, we sat in the kitchen for hours of story telling, swam in the pool, the kids played "Wii".

We stamped on the terra for the day and it was good.

Trocadero pt.II Salvation at the End of the Line

I am not given to subtle action or subtle re-action. Basically, I just jump in. I throw all the cards up, if you will, and watch to see how they land. Here's what happens next...


Peter, well known to the crowd, haunts the club tonight too. He cuts quite the figure in this place used to glitz. He is a straight shooter. At least he appears that way. He wears the years like the 3-piece Armani and the tri-tone shoes he normally sports. He dresses the part. He never looks out of place. His style is impeccable. He doesn't seek attention. Rather, attention seeks him. Tonight, though, is different. He sits near the kitchen with Ginsburg, reading and comfortably spooning Borscht. Tonight the huddled masses seem to not notice him


"Hey, Allen" he whispers. "Have you ever heard of this Bukowski guy? He sounds kinda seedy."

"No future," says Allen, "Just drunken dejection and rejection. A hollow canoli with no cheese"

"But what about McClure?"

"If you know Gaelic, you're fine. Me? I still struggle with Yiddish. Go figure."
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"I know I've seen that face somewhere," The Pig ponders to himself. "Maybe down in Mexico or, perhaps, a picture up on somebody's shelf." Patrushka had left to powder her nose with Claudette, who had snuck in during Calloway's last number. "Why does he look familiar?" he ponders.

But then the crowd began to stamp their feet and the house lights dimmed. In the darkness of the room, the weird and glorious future began to settle into the Pig's mind.

"Maybe I'm a story teller," he ruminates. "Maybe I'm not just another parking bumper," he laughs surreptituously. "I see the northwest passage, mountains and snow. I see Sacajewea. I see a beat cowboy named Tutman struggling to be heard."

"Hey! What did you put in my tea?"

Is there more? There oughta be.
*********************************

The phone rings at 828 Milwaukee Street. It's a friendly call, but the Devil none the less.

"Wassup?" asks Leo, predating the phrase by a good generation at least.

"Have you considered the deal yet?" Scratch asks with a chuckle.

"Um, yeah. Can't do it."

"I figgered. You don't seem the type anyways. Get a better offer?"

"Nope. Just thought my eternal soul might come in handy one day. Besides, I'm like my dad. I never get rid of nuttin'.

"Ok, kid. Gotcha. Just don't forget that you know where I am when you need me."

'Need him?' Leo thinks to himself. 'Last thing I need is him'

Is there more? Of course... just not yet!

Andy Warhol at the Trocadero (part I)

I have a long space between posts and a lot of flow under the bridge. Funny what comes your way when you stop and shut up and listen and watch for a while.

I was driving and driving, it seemed for miles and miles. I took a right on Sunset and , low and behold, I see the driveway for the Trocadero Club. New in town, I turn in. The valet jacks my keys and sends me in. "They're waiting" he says.

I walk in and see Irving Thalberg towards the back, right, corner of the club. Chico and Harpo are sitting in their boxers, toasting marshmallows over an impromptu fire set in the middle of the booth. Groucho is going crazy. Seems the Warner Brothers are suing over the use of the name Casablanca in a Marx movie. Groucho raves, "Maybe we should counter-sue, We were brothers and successful long before they were even done soiling their diapers."

Ingrid Bergman (her real name is Sigrid) is in the opposite corner, sitting with a mug that resembles Capone. He's trying to be witty and looking pretty tony, what with bodyguards and all. She seems bored to tears. "We'll always have Paris" is all she can think. Then that Bacall gal comes in and Ingrid gets up to leave.

"Sorry Al. I have to go. Bob Rosselini is meeting me at ten."

A tear formed in Al's eye, lamenting his fate as mug and thug. He knew Ingrid wouldn't be back

****************************************

Three tables back frim the stage sits the Pondering Pig and his new gal, Patrushka. They are star-eyed and obviously in love. What has the Almighty got in store for them?

The Pig, red-haired and witty, has captured her attention in that way that us guys call, "the look". Yup, she's got it.
"Would you like a frozen banana whoositz?".

"I don't know. What are they like?"

"Sweet, baby. Just like you."

She laughs and smiles into his shining eyes. He smiles and snaps for the waiter.

***************************************

Two thousand miles away, in the throes of the Nixon/blues midwest, a young lad searches, seemingly aimlessly, for the importance of this existence. He laughs and cries and, in the last quarter of the American Century, searches for what little meaning is left in this land of the free and brave.

In short, he plods forth, seeking what the Pig has already found.

"Been here before, baby?", he lamely queries.

"Didn't we go to different high schools together?". That one always got a laugh.

Leo is young, still unsure of what is in store and certainly not ready for what the next 35 years have in store. It all resembles a crap-shoot and not a pretty one for sure. He gets a gift for his current dispensable gal and walks on, alone.

Next installment sometime soon