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."
**********************************
"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

Don't Bogart That Joint, My Friend.

Took a hike, a wee ramble around God's green earth today. Never know what you're gonna find. Low and behold, what presents itself in a desert arroyo? A little piece of nostalgia. A stalk of something foreign to most viewers or readers, at least in it's native wildness. No more to say. The site is hidden and I will be going back to journal this little plant's maturing. Live long, rasta herb.

Verizon Cell Phone Image by Leo

Time out of Mind

Consider, if you will, three men of equal age and time . As much as we think we don't change, we most certainly do. All but the last man, er, pig.

First look is at the curly headed genius behind the whole concept of a wall of sound.

Hey, kids, it's Phil Spector

Then there's this guy. Kinda looks like someone's Uncle Stan. Well, he is. He lives in Queensland, Australia and makes jewelry. Pondering Pig or Foghorn will recognize him from, maybe, the Palo Alto Acid Test. This is Augustus Owsley Stanley III. I guess Dragnet was wrong about what Acid will do to you.

Then there's this last guy. Same boyish twinkle in that ever-pondering eye. Been to Owsley-land. Seen all Spector's bands. Still haven't found what he's looking for, but he's seemingly happier than ever.

Unless, of course, he's playing Edith Piaf songs. Note the exuberance and near-terror in this old duffer's face. Maybe it was the egg-salad sandwich.

Well, now this is much better. There's that boyish twinkle. Yeah, both of them.

The Bus to Never-Ever Land

Well, see. It goes like this... Gentry enjoys dinner . He uses the hat as some sort of shill, a kinda cover for something. God only can answer what.

I have ended up in exile, in a cyclone of my own creation, a symbol of my own intrusions in the life of too many people. They are pissed at me but, yet, they don't begrudge my presence. They love me and allow me the place to screw up. They stand next to me when I give up and cry my eyes out. They love me no matter what.

Escapin' through the lily fields
I came across an empty space
It trembled and exploded
Left a bus stop in its place
The bus came by and I got on
That's when it all began
There was cowboy Neal
At the wheel
Of a bus to never-ever land