Don't start with me!

[Butterfly Man]

Washington Square Park with Charlie Barnett

Charlie Barnett

In the early ‘80’s, I was in NY… Washington Square Park to be exact. I was going to try to punch out a few street shows before I headed back to the west coast.

I set my stuff up right on one corner of the Square, right next to that fake Champs Ellesse looking thing. Just as I was about to start my set up, this big, obnoxious, black guy rides up to me on a bicycle. He tells me he is “The Fireman” and says it is “HIS SPOT”!

I was very cordial to him as I told him to fuck off. He jumps off his bike and gets right up in my shit. I whip my hat off, thinking we’re gonna beef but he sees my head and backs off.

Two guys rush up behind me. I think I’m totally fucked. Welcome to The City, Butterfly Man!

I later found out the two guys are Master Lee and Thien Phu; I knew one, not the other. I had met Master (just William then) Lee at a juggling convention the year before, Dr, Hot and Neon for Now On (Bill Galvin and Steve Mock) had introduced him to me … I quickly forgot about the motherfucker about 5 minutes after meeting him. “Filthy Chinaman”, I thought at the time.

Luckily, he didn’t forget about me. Master Lee went up to this guy “The Fireman” and tried to convince him to allow me to use his spot. It didn’t work. Thien Phu, who was way smaller, tried as well. I just sat back and watched.

As soon as I heard that black piece of shit say, “it’s MY spot” again … I started back up. No way was I gonna let this bicycle seat sniffing bitch kick me off a spot he wasn’t even working.

Both Master Lee and Thien Phu came over to me and suggested another spot not too far away … I looked over at it … saw the potential for a bigger show and decided to leave, but not without telling “the Fireman’ to “go fuck a Dalmatian”. They both laughed. The Fireman didn’t.

I set up all my crap on one of the thin walkways which all connected to a central fountain. I don’t know why but the fountain was dry but there was no water in it at all and it made for a perfect circle show but I didn’t realize that yet.

I had all my props in place and I startd to build my edge. Maybe ten to fifteen punters are watching me, when all of a sudden, I hear a small crowd start chanting, “Charlie … Charlie … Charlie” over by the fountain.

What happened next just freaked me out … they all left … everyone … and I was amazed to see the whole Square empty too… everyone streaming toward the fountain.

“Charlie … Charlie … Charlie”, the ever-widening crowd continued … “Charlie … Charlie … Charlie”.

Frankly, I was dumbfounded … Why did they all walk away from me? … What’s going over there? …. And who is this “Charlie” fuck anyway.

Curiosity got the best of me, and I followed the herd over to the fountain leaving ALL MY SHIT right were it was … still don’t believe I did that. I’m in NEW YORK CITY fer god’s sakes … leave all the tools of your trade unguarded in Washington Square Park. You got to be kidding me, whiteboy!

But leave them I did … I strolled over and sat on a small concrete stump slightly away from the punters.

A black guy saunters into the fountain area with nothing but what looks like a wine bottle inside a crumpled up paper bag. The black guy wasn’t all that big … he had no costume … no props … he wasn’t yelling … he wasn’t doing shit. However, the energy that was building all around me was incredible … “Charlie … Charlie … Charlie”, they all chanted in unison.

Being quite the intellectual, I quickly surmised this guy had to be the “Charlie” they were all clamoring for. Well, at first glance he didn’t look all that special …he looked like any other black guy ready to kill whitey if he had a chance. And then he spoke …

The next 1/2 hour was amazing … this son-of-a-bitch had the dirtiest, filthiest and funniest show I had ever seen … I couldn’t believe it. Astounding the way he played the crowd … his material spewing endless ethnic slurs and vulgarities. This guy made me look like Art fuckin’ Linkletter. I couldn’t get enough, fuck my props, I thought, I ain’t moving.

Right in the middle of the best street show I had ever seen, this “Charlie” guy walks right up to me … I remain seated. He snatches my hat off my head and the crowd roars with approval … they even laugh a little ‘cause I’m bald. Charlie (I can call him that now) looks at the butterflies on my head and goes… “California” … it was the only line in his show that didn’t get a laugh.

Charlie immediately goes on to somebody else, I was quite grateful seeing how he absolutely decimated his “volunteers”. He pulled no punches … especially if the volunteer was Puerto Rican or gay. The predominately black crowd would shriek like schoolgirls at his every coarse and crude invective. Niggers love that shit.

No one dared move when Charlie took control of that fountain. His was the only movement. He strutted around the stillness until the level of laughter dictated his next move. An un-caged tiger stalking his willing prey. A cacophony of cheers following his every move. He was magnificent.

I guess what really stuck me as so incredible was that he used no props. He had nothing but that paper bag wrapped wine bottle, which he occasionally took a swig from. By the way he drank it, it was obviously not wine …just water.

He had no hat, so I’m thinking, “How is this motherfucker gonna hat those punters?”

I swear it was incredible … Charlie takes the bottle out of the bag and puts it on the ground. Then seamlessly, with no effort at all, he walks around, as the masses pummel him with cash. Little by little he stuffs more and more bills into the little brown sack. There was no change … none.

The whole time nobody moved … they waited patiently until Charlie got around to them … he never badgered anybody. Even I couldn’t wait for him to come to my area for his deserved reward … I gave him my silver bullet of cocaine, the only thing I had in my pocket.

He saw the bullet and knew exactly what it was … I knew then that he would never again refer to me as just “California”.

Charlie stuffed the massive amount of cash as tightly as possible into the bag then rolled it up tube-like and stuffed it down the front of his pants. He then proceeded to do at least 10 or 15 more minutes of hilarity with an immense bulge in his trousers… all gratis. “Wow”, I thought, “must be a black thing”.

Naturally, I wanted to share some of my own tip, so I kind of sauntered up to him after he finished. He had a hot black chick and a hot white bitch with him already. I didn’t care about them, I wanted a piece of Charlie too… or at least a toot or two from the 1/4 gram I had left in the bullet.

Immediately, when our eyes met … he pretended to be gay … I had no problem with that … my gay was as good as his … I gayed him right back, the girls giggling only adding to our pretense.

He followed me over to my van and the four of us cleaned out my stash of coke and weed in a little over an hour. Damn those bitches, I could’ve had twice as much time with that motherfuckin’ genius if they didn’t snort and huff all my shit so fast.

Charlie left when the drugs were gone and I never saw him again.
I did see him a few years later on a couple of episodes of Miami Vice and I heard he did some shitty movie with Mr. T, but I never saw him again in person. I left later that same day, driving all the way back to San Francisco. It was the only trip I ever took where I didn’t do any coke and didn’t miss it at all.




Epilogue



I was very fucked up when Charlie and the girls split, and I panicked when I realized I’d left my stuff unguarded in the Square. I ran back only to see both Thien Phu and Master Lee standing by my case vigilantly. I thanked them profusely while they pressed me to perform. I told them I’d do a late show but I was really too fucked up right now to juggle. They somehow knew I was telling the truth.

Over the next couple of hours, I watched them trade on and off. Thien had great technical skills but no command of the language. William Lee had neither. Jesus, he was still doing that cheesy 3-ball trick where one ball “floats” above the other two. To this day, I still feel sorry for him … and I constantly remind him about it every chance I get. I don’t even need balls in my hands … I just do the move. He hates it … he really hates it.

It was getting dark, so Thien was doing his last set of day … I was gonna go on last. A position I always liked, since I didn’t have to clear my shit off quickly.
Right in the middle of his show four badass black guys start heckling Thien … I didn’t like what I was seeing.

These guys were killing his show … loud vulgarities spewed from their ghetto throats. Thien had no comebacks … no heckler lines … nothing. He just stood there and took it as those niggers killed his show. He was dying out there.

“Fuck this”, I thought to myself, these guys need to be taught a lesson.

Well, I never quite know how I do what I do, where it all comes from is a mystery to me. I’m not all that funny offstage and I really try not to hurt anybody’s feelings, but the Butterfly Man inside me had other ideas that evening.

I blatently walk to the center of Thien Phu’s circle in just my street clothes. Never … repeat … Never!, would I interfere with another person’s act … it would be y-e-a-r-s before I would meet The Checkerboard Guy. I just couldn’t stand to smell Vietnamese juggling meat being fried like that. Anyway, what harm could it do … this kid’s show was pau.

I stood in the center of the pitch with Thien tucked in safely behind me. I glared at the 4 black guys challenging them to draw. They did … I did. It was sweet … they never had a chance.

I must admit it took longer than it usually does for me to skin and scalp a heckler, but I excuse myself because there were four of them. Eventually, leave they did … and, I might add, very unhappily. Apparently, some of the things I told the audience about them, their mothers or their sisters might have actually been true. And we all know how truth can hurt, don’t we?

After they left, I handed the show back over to a stunned Thien Phu. He rocked ‘em after that and it made me feel good. Now I know how the Lone Ranger must have felt every time he went into town.

I didn’t do my show after that (despite the pestering), I just packed up and left. My little bullshit juggling show would have been anti-climactic at that point.

I’m glad I left. Tonto would’ve been proud.

[Butterfly Man]

London with the Captain

Captain KeanO, the best of the best

Over the years, many folks have asked me who is the best street performer I’ve ever seen. That’s always a difficult question for me to answer simply because how can you compare genius to genius?

When I first saw Peter Pitofsky perform on Venice Beach in the ‘70’s, it was him. Then, when I saw Charlie Barnett in Washington State Park in the early ‘80’s, it was him. But nothing prepared me for what I was about to see in London at Covent Garden in 1986. It was … well; I really can’t do justice to the man without telling the whole story.

After seeing many of my comedy comrades fall prey to the evil white rhino powder in the early ‘80’s, I swore off the stuff. To be honest with you, I decided to go try my hand at “busking” (I hadn’t heard the word yet) in Europe just to get away from all my “contacts” in San Francisco. It turned out to be a good decision for more than one reason.

I landed in Amsterdam and bought a van, a shitty looking Peugeot that ran like a top but only at a modest 55km/hr. I knew the “moves” to pull in order to deal with European road tax and insurance requirements, so I beat it out of Amsterdam quickly … I would be cool as long as I didn’t cross the border back into the Netherlands (I guess that’s how it got it’s name) again.

I checked out and worked Pompidou in Paris and did OK but I had to deal with this fat-French fuck with a bloated pin cushioned belly who constantly tried to intimidate the American acts … he tried once with me … never fucked with me again, I wonder why? We seemed to get along so well.

I tired of the all-pervasive French attitude quickly and hustled my shit down to Spain. As a youth I had lived in both Paris and Barcelona for a while, so my Spanish sucked and my French was worse. Didn’t matter really … even back then lots of people spoke English and they didn’t hate America that much yet.

I worked the Ramblas in Barcelona for about a week but there was no real money there … considering all the economic inequities that existed between my audience and myself, I really should have paid them. But Spanish people have a lot of love in their hearts and have a fire inside them that burns brilliantly. Too bad they’re such lazy fucks; I guess they never really recovered after Columbus didn’t bring back that gold he said he would.

I scooted over to Italy and had the best shows of my life. Fuckin’ Italians are simply the best audiences. Even better than Canadians, if you can believe that. Canadians might stay and watch you even if it’s raining but Italians will follow you to the pitch and sit around for fuckin’ hours just like dogs waiting to be fed. Incredible were the hats too. Oh, not the money, that wasn’t worth shit. What’s a thousand lira? … like thirty cents or something ridiculous like that? It wasn’t the money, it was the people.

Remember, I was still single in those days so I accepted all kinds of tips, some of them wouldn’t fit in a hat if yaknowwhatImean.
I was taken home by entire families that treated me to dinner, gave me a room for a night and an hour or two with their daughter when they weren’t looking. Nice people, really.

Italy was all well and good but I was in need of some dosh, so I headed up to Switzerland and did Lucerne and Berne. Whew, that’s MY kind country … everything so clean. Neat and tidy those folks … my fondest recollection of Switzerland was taking a piss and having the goddamn urinal flush by itself. Blew me away … didn’t see another one of those things for 15 years.
After Switzerland, I considered Munich or Berlin but I knew this sexy bitch named Lucy who lived in London so well, I wondered how the British would respond to me and my American brashness.

Next thing I know I’m on a ferry going from Calais to Portsmouth.
The channel was so rough I puked the whole way. I remember at the time thinking, “why don’t they build some sort of bridge to this fuckin’ place or somesuchshit … no wonder nobody visits these pompous fucks.”

British authorities went though every inch of that van and about 90% of my asshole when I landed. My passport then had me the way I really look, so there was no hiding the butterflies with a hat.
As soon as I showed the limey immigration officer my passport and picture it was bend over and smile time. I started a savings plan for a wig immediately afterwards.

I paid out 200 quid in order to use their fucked up highway system … I was robbed. Those roads don’t go anywhere but in circles … they even admit it … call ‘em “roundabouts”. What’s even worse is they stick little fuckin’ concrete poles in the middle of these little cow paths just to fuck with you. Horrid, simply horrid.

I move in with Lucy and her three brothers in a squat in Hackney. Three of them are jugglers, one a musician, all on the Dole. I ended up getting along better with the brothers than with Lucy and we spent hours drinking tea, building joints and playing “Risk”. Those Brits sure know how to live, don’t they?

The two boy jugglers were juggling blue-butts, never really had an act of any kind and had the ambition of Rumpelstiltskin, so I went to check out the famous Covent Garden for myself.

This is where my story starts.

As I wander into this vast shopping/restaurant complex that looked more like flea market with a church in the middle of it, I spy my old friend, Paddy Bramwells, on the pitch. He takes me around and introduces me to all the regulars who, when they find out I’m American, don’t give a toss if I live or die. Alright then, sod off! Who need ya? Fuckin’ wankers, I say.

Then, and I felt it in the air, just before it happened, Paddy points to a small group of guys huddled behind on of the huge columns … he points out one guy in particular. “That’s Captain KeanO”, he says.

My brain echo’s that name …Keano, Keano, where did I hear that name before? It all comes back in a flash. In my early days as entertainment co-coordinator at San Francisco’s Pier 39 this London based juggling group had passed through town. They called themselves “The Amazing Mendizes” and they spoke of this wild-man Captain KeanO and some other guy named Chris the Piss. That name, I remembered.

Just as Paddy is pointing at them, their group starts pointing at us. Then, for no fucking reason at all, one of their group, a guy about my height but obviously in way better shape comes bounding full speed towards us. I had no idea what the fuck was happening. I froze, Paddy did too. By the speed this guy was running I knew I wouldn’t get very far anyway, so I went for my knife, realizing all too late they had relieved me of that little possession in Portsmouth. Fuck!

I brace myself and surreptitiously try to inch over behind Paddy.
It doesn’t work, this guy is fast.

About two feet before he slams into us he leaps about 3 feet in the air and throws himself sideways spinning a half a turn horizontally and lands smack in my arms. It was more of an emotional jolt than a physical one as this guy threw his arms around my neck and kisses me full-on the mouth.

I figure “My name is Bob, and I’m glad to meet you too.” wasn’t really going to work in this situation, so I just kissed him back. Not really, I’m just fuckin’ with you.

But the weirdo kissed ME! And that’s the fuckin TRUTH! I didn’t know this fuck and he just kissed me full on the fuckin’ MOUTH!
Not a cheek, not my ass, ON MY FUCKIN” MOUTH! DID YOU HEAR ME? ON-MY-FUCKIN’-MOUTH!

No man had ever even kissed me at all in my entire life … not my grandfather … not my father … not even that perverted uncle we didn’t visit very often in Florida.

Well, I didn’t know what to say, but I quickly realized I didn’t really need to say anything. Mostly because there was NO WAY anybody could compete with KeanO, once he was on. And I really don’t mean on, I mean ON. If KeanO wanted the moment, then the moment belonged to KeanO.

From that moment, and pretty much every time I could manage over the next four days, I hung out with this insane madman. We went everywhere together. He took me to crazy places around London, we visited The Mutoid Waste Company, who I saw again years later in Edinburgh where they took over a whole city block and made it a scene from Mad Max (before Mad Max existed). He took me to see a friend of his named Jerry Sadowitz who showed his audience his dick and when KeanO introduced us, I said, “Sorry, but what’s so hard about that?” KeanO loved the line, this guy named Jerry didn’t.

That’s the thing about KeanO … and that’s ‘the thing’ that makes him different from any other performer I’ve ever met, even Charlie. The ‘thing’ about KeanO is that he opens all the doors. Nothing is sacred any longer, nothing, anything & everything is a go. No pulls, no stops, no changing trains … full on or why be there….That was KeanO.

Speaking about trains, I just gotta tell you this one …

There’s this thing in London called the Underground. It’s supposed to be a decent way of getting around that shitty city, but it sucks. Confusing as all hell, it would take a goddamn Jap to figure it all out. I, personally, think they made it just so they can go beneath the surface of that crap capitol. I hear they occasionally fry one of their own down there and eat it with tomatoes for breakfast. Balder-fuckin' haggis-dash, I say!

KeanO took me everywhere in that thing, and I hated every minute of it. First of all, remember, it’s a public place … that means, in laymen’s terms, there are people there. The people in there had a purpose, they seemed to be going somewhere. KeanO was not. Anywhere was fine, as long as he went first.

KeanO’s purpose was the people. I’ve never seen anyone so merciless with an individual's right to his personal property and bodily comfort. That guy fucked with everyone… including me.

The “Tube” became our playground, the Brits our little toys.

KeanO would swing from bar to bar on the moving train pretending to be a thoroughly intolerable chimpanzee.

I saw him swing in front of this rather dashing looking threesome and just slowly swing back and forth in front them. The two girls were quite lovely and the gentleman, although youngish, carried himself with aplomb and dignity. That all went out the window when KeanO started fucking with them.

His screeching subsided and he just hung there staring at them up and down … especially the girls. He gently rocked back and forth arm to arm, occasionally lifting one arm out in front towards them then drawing it quickly back when he saw their facial expressions change from appalled to horrified.

I wasn’t expecting him to break character, but I guess the pretty girls got the best of him. Like the talking ape he so aptly represented, KeanO presumptuously inquired, “ All right then, which one of you wants me for the night?”

KeanO then swings out to grab one of the girls. She swiftly backs away in shock. He swings back to home base, lets out a Johnny Weissmuller yodel then he swings back out again at the other girl. She too, hurriedly retreats in revulsion. Then with no rhyme or reason, KeanO swings back, says quickly, “Well, I guess it’s just you and me, mate.” And flings himself at the guy and kisses him on the mouth.
And I thought I was special.

Not to be outdone, I, too, tried my hand at heartlessly fucking with people’s lives. It helps if you don’t think of them as people anymore … just fodder. Giving them cute names like “hooligan” and “ruffian” helps too (thank you Bill).

Back then, they were still eating cow meat, so you could smoke on the Tube. I spy this kinda scruffy looking bloke with a beat up pair of knickers, donning a tattered pair of Wellies and doin’ a rollup with these dodgy hands. I thought it was a splief at first … then I saw the Drum on the package of tabac … disgusting shit, that …fucked a girl in Germany once that smoked that crap, couldn’t kiss her but she sure made me smile.

I sit down across from this poor soul and try to imitate his shaking hands. It’s easy because KeanO is just a few feet away and watching my every move. It’s MY turn now, to prove my worth. The gauntlet has been thrown. I must run the comedic labyrinth or dishonor my countrymen. Fuck that! I ain’t got to prove squat! Fuck America, fuckin’ fat fucks… fuck ‘em.

Like an addict cold turkeying on methadone or a Portagee on meth, I stretch my trembling fingers slowly towards this poor Fagen wannabe. His hazy eyes meet mine, he sees my shaking hand, we connect on a primeval level. Without asking, I ask for a fag … I heard you mostly use your eyes when you do that sort of thing anyway.

He hands me the papers and I start to roll a pinch from his pouch. I forcefully stop myself from singing, “You’ve got to pick a pocket or two boys … you’ve got to pick a pocket or two.” It takes me awhile to finish rolling but the old geezer feels quite comfortable with that.

I hold the fag between my lips (god, I really wanted to go my whole life without saying that) and signal him for a light. I use the universal language of Bic lighter mime to convey my message.

I light the fag … this is where the shit begins.

With my first puff, I start to gag, I wasn’t acting. That part was easy. How those Europeans smoked like chimneys was beyond me. You’d think they’d take the hint when they looked in a mirror and smiled. Those that did have teeth had this gorgeous sheen of brown gunk layered from incisor to bicuspid. Tea at four, my ass, not to mention the spliefs.

Though KeanO was watching my every move, I had no worries. A good performer, in my opinion, always has something in their hip pocket “just in case”. Like most of the Brits, I had problems with my teeth. In my case, however, it was only one tooth, the rest were fine, and I purposely never did anything about it. Let me explain.

Since I was a kid, I had this molar in the back of my mouth on the left side. I guess everybody does, but mine was different. If I stuck my tongue into the side of it, and started sucking, I could get a small amount of blood to trickle out. I could do it at will, but I rarely willed.

In fact, I hadn’t done it in almost ten years. Last time I remember having to pull out the big guns like that was my inorganic midterm when I was a sophomore. The time was now, I had no glittery shit to toss about, no quips all worked out in advance, no shills in the crowd. Just KeanO, the geezer and me.

Come to think of it, I did have one other weapon in my arsenal, the ability to do what’s known as a “sailors blush” … I have no fucking idea why they call it that but it sounds better than saying, “you close your mouth and force whatever air you have in your upper thoracic region into the back of your thorax while constricting your carotids by pulling your chin down”. I like “sailors blush” much better, it just reads easier.

The result of a “sailors blush” is easily identifiable, you turn purple. I guess I could’ve just said that “I can turn purple whenever I want” and that would’ve been good enough, huh? But then you, the bored shitless and “get on with the STORY, asshole!” reader, would be less informed, wouldn’t you?

I capture my crowd of two with my first move. After the first cough, I don’t move. Stillness was the key (stole that from Master Lee, years later). I grabbed my throat with my left hand and bent just low enough so they could both have a view of my face but it kinda looked like I was trying not to get noticed. Ha, quite the opposite, my dear Watson, quite the opposite. They both watch in awe. I feel the energy of other passengers too, but this is not for them … just KeanO, the geezer and me.

I start my “sailors blush” and molar suck right away, knowing they both are a slow build … first pink, with just a taste of blood (yeah, it’s working), then red, (keep sucking, Bobby) then purple vein bulging head while focusing on mixing the blood with spit (salivary amylase anyone?) to get more volume. Christ!, I’m almost at the point when I have just enough blood in my mouth to start the “drool” when…

Ain’t that always the case? Something you hadn’t counted on occurs. Some bullshit like that happens every time you try to entertain people. Fuckin’ reality! I hate it.

Squatting on the bench like a turkey vulture, KeanO jumps from his perch right onto my shoulders, slamming me face-first to the floor. It didn’t hurt; he had used his weight wisely.

But then, the pasty faced, chair-worshipping cunt started pounding me on the back with the palms of his hands. He somehow was able to pull his blows, so I hardly felt a thing, but I really couldn’t do much of anything anyway because the bastard had me pinned.

KeanO flips me over like a rag doll (how’d he do that?) and starts screaming, “don’t die, don’t die, you fuckin’wanker, don’t die”, while slapping me full on across my face. He wasn’t pulling the slaps much, so after two, I’d had enough. I pretended to convulse, nothing gran, more petit… then I faked a choke and spit in his face. I felt better already.

Just then, the train slowed down quickly for a stop. We both knew it was over. KeanO jumps up and I do too. We happily hug each other and get off at the stop. I’ll never forget the face of that old geezer through the window. He was staring at us both as we stood still on the platform. I imagined what he saw… me, slightly disheveled, with my hat in my hand, and two butterflies on my head, and KeanO with my blood splattered all over his face.

As the doors closed and the car slowly left, I looked closely at the geezers hands … they weren’t shaking anymore.

Like adrenalin to an athlete or shit to a pig, blood on his face just pumped up the volume for KeanO. We bounded up the stairs into the mostly cold-and-damp-all-the-fuckin’-time megalopolis of London.

[Butterfly Man]

More in the UK with KeanO

I had no clue as to where I was, and frankly, I didn’t give a shit. I hadn’t had enough of this outrageous atrocity yet. Hanging with KeanO was every bit as exciting as being on stage. Your heart never stopped pumping and you never knew what was going to happen next.

We “Tube” hopped and “Pub” skipped all over that fucked up town. I got to meet and greet some of the most sordid characters imaginable. KeanO seemed to have the ‘reprobate’ market covered. I kind of recollected my biology professor saying once that KeanO had discovered more slime than Bosch, apparently most of it in Soho.

We entered each and every pub or restaurant just like anyone else, but we always left with an escort. I lost count of the places we were asked to leave from … it was in the teens. Not all of the evictions had to do with food fights or beer baths; some were quite tidy upon our departure. One, with the popcorn machine in the lobby, actually looked quite festive as they booted us to the curb.

What I thought was especially considerate was that the management always seemed to have transportation available for us almost immediately upon exiting their establishment. So thoughtful those English.

Unfortunately, KeanO & I weren’t always able to accommodate our drivers. We always seemed to have pressing engagements elsewhere. Rude of us really, after all, many of them announced their arrival with sirens. Sometimes, when they got real close, they even flashed colored lights. I assume they did this to make our evening stroll a bit safer and slightly more jolly. Like I said, thoughtful those English, very thoughtful.

One restaurant still stands out in my mind. It was Indian, not the ones we slaughtered and raped, the ones they did. The management really had been trained well, you could tell by the courtesies extended even after a whole plate of Chicken Masala ended up on the cash register. KeanO was a master acrobat and really made a brilliant pratfall worthy of Keaton or Lloyd.

They were fine with the whole fiasco until he tried to clean up his mess with a pitcher of 1/2 & 1/2 (Guinness & Bass). When I saw KeanO start to pour, I moved to the door, I knew the routine. There was an ‘independent’ about a stones throw away coming my way down the M-1, I flagged him down. Before the driver had a chance to discover I was a yank and up the rate, KeanO burst through the door. He was not alone.

Punjab (sounds good) and his son are trying to embrace KeanO as he exits. He must have made quite an impression on them for them to act so affectionately. Punjab’s son was the one to worry about, judging not only by his intent but also by the S-shaped stick he had in his hand. Good thing for KeanO, I had the cab ready.

Deftly, KeanO uses Punjab to body block Punjab Junior. With the extra second, he does a half spin right into the back seat of the cab and closes the door. What really impressed me was his composer. He was so calm & polite to the driver despite his recent torrid affair with Punjab. ‘‘Brixton, mate!” he states cheerily, not a bit out of breath.

The cab is spotless. Charming little doilies lay immaculately white on the headrests & armrests. A tidy box of tissues (with matching doily cover) on the console. The driver sporting pristine white gloves. I already feel sorry for the guy.

KeanO actually has the audacity to roll down his window and wave goodbye to Punjab and his family. I cringe. I feel unworthy to be in the presence of such a master. I try to disappear but it doesn’t work … again.

After about 10k, KeanO gets uncomfortably quiet. He turns to me and asks me what entree had I ordered this evening. I told him “the Duck” (my homage to Groucho). He says, “Really? … The Duck?” because that's what British people do … they say, “Really?” … then they repeat exactly the same fuckin’ thing you just said.

Officer: “Fire!”

Soldier: “Really” …”Fire?”

Officer: “Really”… “Really Fire!”

Soldier: “Really Fire” … Really?”

(bang)

Officer: “Did you hear that?”

Soldier:


No wonder they lost the war.

KeanO waits a minute or two then gags a bit and says, “I’m not feeling so well, Ian.” He then starts fidgeting with the doilies and pulling the little pins out. When he’s sure there is no place for the driver to pull over, he gags while pawing at the seat backs and window.

That pitiable Jap. He looked like a Mexican jumping bean inside a caffé latté. He tried so hard to hand the tissue box to KeanO but KeanO just kept batting it away.

“ Prease ruse CreanX, ruse CreanX”, he preaded.

KeanO ‘s sputtering, gagging, puking and heaving sounded disgustingly real.

“Not a bad actor”, I thought. “He could do porn.”

[Butterfly Man]

Credit where credit is due

Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due


A few years back, my good friend Waldo was having trouble getting in and out of countries. Let’s face it, when you show up at someone’s border with only a backpack of dirty props and a weeks worth of smelly laundry, customs officials don’t exactly roll out the red carpet. Waldo might receive a lot of respect at an IJA convention but that doesn't get you VIP treatment on your way to Bern.

I'm pretty sure just about everyone out there in buskerdom knows the traveler’s check “double your net worth bit”. Unfortunately, even this can be hard to pull off when you add a rained out season in Covent Garden to a sprained left wrist from Octoberfest. Your financial portfolio might as well be labeled i-t-i-n-e-r-a-n-t.

Now we all know that being a street performer can be at least as lucrative as an assistant manager’s job at Denny’s but try telling that to a credit card company. Lucky for me, I made myself a legitimate member of the middle class years ago by doing the NACA college circuit. During that time, I somehow duped American Express into giving me my very own credit card. Believe me, having one of those little pieces of plastic makes border crossing conversations go much smoother.

So a few years later, while Waldo was visiting me in San Francisco, I received notification in the mail (syncronicity?) that I was now qualified for an American Express Gold Card. After we both stopped laughing, we used the enclosed application to apply for him to become a member on my account ... did I mention he was a good friend?

This was our agreement ... he would pay the annual fee of $75 and use the card for ID purposes only!

HA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Try telling that to Waldo, a month and many thousands of miles later, somewhere in Luzern, with a Swiss nubile whispering into his ear something he wished he could understand.

Soooooo back in the U.S.A., dear sweet, trusting I, start to receive bar/restaurant and (dare I reveal it) hotel bills from exotic places I can’t even pronounce properly. Never, except during my show, had I ever used such abusive language!

Honestly, I did nothing about the bills (except pay them). I knew there would soon be a day of reckoning (or at least a Renegade Stage to vent my fury on) so I let it pass and watched as the bills accumulated.

Now, call it destiny, fate or karmic debt but later that same year, while doing shows in Perth, Australia my wallet gets lifted from my hotel room (while I was sleeping!) So what’s the first thing anyone does??? ... That’s right! ... you cancel your credit cards!!!

I swear on Gazzo’s grave that I didn’t even think about the fact that I was canceling Waldo’s card at the same time! But to be honest, even if I had thought of it, I had no idea where he was or how to contact him, so there was nothing I could have done anyway.

Flash forward one month ... I’m back in the states @ Pier 39 in San Francisco and some guy walks up to me after one of my shows and says he just got back from Europe. He asks me do I know a juggler named “Waldo”? I go “Yeah, sure ... how’s he doin’?” This guy then tells me this story of woe about how when he met this guy Waldo he found him sitting on a curb in the rain, soaking wet having just got kicked out of his hotel ... something about a credit card being taken away and cut in two.

It all hit me in a flash!! ... canceling the credit card!!! ... Oh my Gawd!!!... what I had done?! What scum I was! How could I have done something like that to a friend, a fellow juggler, a veritable icon in the street performing world!

But no matter how I felt, there really was nothing I could do at that point.
I knew I was soon scheduled to perform at a festival in Cardiff, Wales and that Waldo was going to be there as well. So I hastily wrote American Express and had his Gold Card reinstated and replaced so when we met he wouldn’t punch, or worse, pass clubs with me.

Picture (if you will) my arrival in Cardiff... Waldo’s already there ... I go to the mall ... there he is ... about a block away ... he sees me too... we walk towards each other... he has a strange look on his face ... we both start to apologize at the same time... “What, you’re not mad?” ... “No, I thought you were!” ... “Me?” ... “No, man I thought you were!”

Over beers he explained how he had met this young lass in Switzerland and wanted to impress her so he used the credit card for dinner. In turn, I explained to him how I had gotten ripped off in Australia had to cancel the card. Apparently, that guy I had met at the Pier had walked up to him just as it had started raining and he was sitting on the curb because he was waiting for a cab. He was not destitute, he was just switching hotels.

Here’s the best part. About 6 months later I got a letter addressed to Waldo, himself. It was from Visa saying he’s been pre-approved for his own credit card. Apparently, they share information with other credit card companies and Waldo was now eligible for his very own card.

He filled out the application and sent it in. Since at the time he had no real address he used the Hawaiian Vaudeville Company’s, as some of you know is just a bunch of stoned juggler’s that hang out on the Big Island. When Visa called them up to verify employment they answered the phone with a very professional “HVC, Can I help you?”

Visa asked to speak with Waldo ... but were told “I’m sorry, he’s on the golf course right now and is unavailable”. So Visa thinks “whoa! this guy has his own company, a secretary and can play golf on a Thursday” ... they sent him his own card ... pronto!

Last summer, Waldo bought me lunch while we were hanging out together in Montreal. He paid the bill with his Visa card.

Burp!

[Butterfly Man]

Arsene, the French Fried Fool

My wife once said to me, many years ago, “There are only three cool street performers … “Waldo … Arsene … and …”. I waited with baited breath for the third name … did I make the cut? “And Sean McKinney”, she finished.

Bitch!

Yeah, OK, for sure, Sean was cool, way cool. Maybe even Waldo was also. But to have the woman I love call Arsene, that cheap, lying, conniving Frenchman, “cool” just pissed me right off.

“What are you nuts?” I screamed. That guy wore an orange robe for two years just to fuck his guru! Are you insane? …Him?… cool??

What immediately sprang to mind was the time Arsene literally stole money from the punters to win a street performing competition. The winner was the hat with the most money … I remember mine was 491 … I didn’t think anybody could beat that. But Arsene and Waldo teamed up. Waldo just stood there juggling some-such-shit, while Arsene went pick pocketing through the crowd. He’d put his hand in trousers (he was used to that) he’d open purses and wallets and take out the bills and stuff them into their hat. He didn’t ask, no tip lines, no class… downright thievery if you ask me! The bastards beat me by almost 200 bucks. They got a really cool trophy and 5 silicone balls. Fuckin’ dicks!

Oh, and then there was that time in Hawaii when a whole bunch of people went on a treasure hunt and Arsene’s group won. It was discovered later that Arsene changed a stone foundation marking that sent everybody going in the opposite direction. I was there when they busted him. He waffled like a baby.

OK, so maybe you get the impression Arsene and I never got along. Well, it’s not true. We got along just fine … as long as we never spoke to each other. When we found ourselves together at a festival, convention or pitch somewhere in the world… it was always (for me anyway) … who was the funniest. And, goddammit, it was always that dog fucker, Arsene!

That French cunt was just way too talented for my liking. Way too funny for a filthy Frenchman. The lucky dip shit had charisma up the yin yang and the enviable quality of showmanship. Oh, as the Butterfly Man, I could hold my own onstage, but Arsene was not only an excellent performer he was quite charming and good-looking. He had skills as well … fuck that guy!

For many years after he quit working with Waldo, Arsene still came to IJA conventions. The cheap schmuck never paid for anything.

I watched year after year in amazement how would do little bullshit magic tricks for the cafeteria cashiers to get free food. Then, to gain admission to the shows or gym, he’d lift someone’s security badge and pretend to be in charge.

This butt-fucker actually checked MY badge at the IJA convention in San Jose. ME, the GODDAMN BUTTERFLY MAN AT A FUCKIN” JUGGLING CONVENTION!

I try to enter the gymnasium where all the jugglers hang out and I see that arrogant French prick sitting in a chair right outside entrance checking badges. He had a large green button on that said, “I Am Secure” which Barry Bakalor (convention chairman) had given to all his security people. That smegma guzzler actually stopped me from entering while pointing to his badge going, “I am zeecure, I am zeecure.” I should have whipped it out and pissed on that two bit French whore right then and there.

I KNEW that jackoff wasn’t security … he never registered for anything in his life that cost any money. The crook didn’t even own his own NAME fer godsakes…he even lifted THAT from Edgar Allen Poe.

Every year at the IJA convention it would be the same thing … he’d wait ‘til the gym was about to close and then he would find me. He knew I always got a room to myself, so I’d have an extra bed. He’d hang around until I was about to leave and then …just follow me back to the dorms. We never spoke. He’d just follow me into the room and go about his business like he deserved to be there. What a hose hound!

After about 5 years of this crap, I decided to get TWO keys with my convention package instead of one. I mean, what’s better? … giving the haughty French prick his own key or having to deal with him personally every night. I opted for the 1st … what’s a $25 dollar security deposit when it gives you piece of mind.

I found it quite disconcerting during my early IJA years that this scumbag was held in such high regard. Every time he walked on a stage he was totally worshiped. OK, without a doubt, he was an amazing talent … turning ordinary things (like shaving cream and rubber bands) into hilarious routines. I was so jealous; I wanted to guillotine the motherfucker every time I watched him. Frogs are used to that sort of thing, aren’t they?

Then, the moment I was waiting for, finally arrived. It was the year I peaked… it was ’86. It was actually ’87 … but ’86 sounds funnier.

Without going into details, I raged on the final night of Renegade (the midnight show). The Renegade crew actually carried me off the stage while I was still on it! At least 6 or 8 guys picked up what remained of the stage (after packing everything else) and carried me away while I ranted into an empty microphone stand (they turned the power off long before I even got up there).

It was kinda cool the way the small audience of 20 or 30 stragglers stayed right where they were as they carried me away behind a small hill … I kept ranting ‘til they (me really) disappeared from view. There was no applause but I knew I had been hot.

When I got back to the dorm room, Arsene was already lying down. He had beaten me back by only a few minutes. As I undressed and lay down he spoke to me for the 1st time. I was stunned. I knew he didn’t think much of ‘my brand of humor’ and I knew he didn’t like me personally but I guess that night I finally managed to impress him enough to speak to me about something other than providing him free accommodations.

“Ah, butterfly you were un-believable tonight!”, I hear, as I start to lie down.

I’m so shocked this motherfucker is talking to me I am speechless. I just lie there. I don’t say a word.

“You know butterfly, many years ago I was on my way to California and I had zis motorcycle acci-dent." He continued, his French accent pompously accentuating every word …“I was going to zee ziz man zey call ze butterfly man … and I zay put me in zis ospital and "… on and on he went.

He told me about his “muzah” and “faza” and growing up in Paree… all the boring personal crap I had no interest in knowing because I already hated him for being so fuckin’ funny.

As I lay there, he continued to ramble on and on … I never said a word. After about 20 minutes, there was a silence … I was quite taken aback that he had told me so much intimate stuff.

The silence must have been too uncomfortable for him, so when he completed his trite expose he said, “ Zo Butterfly, vat do you zink of zat?”

I was so proud of what I did next.

I didn’t say a word … but very quietly, almost imperceptibly, I started to snore. Not very loud … very softly. I wanted it to appear that I had been asleep through the whole monologue. I wanted him to think that he had bored the shit out of me (which was actually true).

It worked … when he got no reaction … he listen closely and then he must have heard my snoring because I heard a slight glick come from the back of his throat. I could feel my comedic balls swell and hang slightly lower as this French fishmonger realized he had essentially been talking to a wall for almost half an hour.

I fell asleep with a huge grin on my face.

He was gone when I awoke.

Fin

[Butterfly Man]

San Francisco's Heavyweight Juggler

Donnia Ray Smith came to the streets of San Francisco in the early ‘80’s. I first heard about him from a friend who was a cable car operator doing the Polk Street run. He spoke of a big black guy doing some magic at the turnaround.

In those days, I was pretty busy as the Butterfly Man, so I didn’t pay much attention to my friend; besides, he was a big black guy who did magic as well. I was pretty sure white people were only allowed 1 BBG who did magic/person; so I never even went down to see Ray.

My first recollection of Ray was him walking up to me … and me being scared shitless.

Imagine you’re white, (not that difficult, unless you’re not) and you weigh about 150 pounds soaking wet. Now imagine a partial eclipse of Golden Gate Park as an immense black man whose face looks remarkably similar to a steel belted radial with eyes & lips approaches you. I watched as his lips approached me from a distance, my first thought when he got close was “I’m not gay but if I was, that’s my man!”

Your first reaction when you see a 5’ 11” by 5’’11” black man is visceral. You can actually feel your nuts jump inside your abdomen for safety. Your heart starts to beat franticly as you feebly attempt to recollect which shoe you put your weed into and which one has the money. Weed has the opposite effect on black people … it gets them all excited … money calms them down. I was just hoping this guy wasn’t Jewish too, then I’d be totally fucked.

He introduces himself extending a hand the size of Massachusetts.

“Heldo, my name Dunna Raa”… then he folded his paw around mine… twice. I knew we would become friends from that moment on because I did not have an alternative. His grin was the only thing that kept me from urinating. It sparkled like the Pepsodent smile from my youth … the jet-black background only adding to the gleam.

I taught Ray to juggle that day. It was just a 3-ball cascade and I’m a great teacher. Funny sight that must have been though, ‘cause I teach people to juggle by standing side-by-side. We probably looked like jugglers representing opposing socio-economic backgrounds…sort of a ‘brothers from different motherfuckers’ type of thing.

Ray started to come every Saturday to Peacock Meadow in Golden Gate Park. He knew that all the jugglers met there on Sunday but he came on Saturday because he knew I’d be there alone. I never taught anyone more than just a three-ball cascade most probably because I couldn’t stand to be around anyone much longer than that. With Ray I had no choice.

Every Saturday he would come back and show me his progress. He would work at whatever tricks I suggested and come back and show me the next week. Whenever he saw my jaw drop repeatedly as he went from 3 to 5 to 7 to 9 balls he would flash me that grin. That unbelievable grin.

Since I was just a struggling seven-ball juggler, Ray surpassed me in a little over a year. I only saw one other juggler besides Anthony Gatto who developed as quickly (very rare) and that other person quit because they get bored. Ray never got bored. Ray practiced.
From the moment he got to the park to the moment he left he practiced … relentless … total focus … a physical marvel … a magnificent beast … totally focused on the task at hand. He only stopped to ask a question now and then.

Over the first 2 years that I knew him, Ray became one of the best technical jugglers on the wharf … but nobody knew it. He didn’t juggle numbers in his act, he did it in a gym downtown. His plan was to win a gold medal at an IJA convention. I told him about the IJA and I guess he somehow believed that if he could win the competition it would catapult him to stardom.

Maybe it was foolish of me to introduce him to the IJA, maybe it wasn’t. I told him I was driving to Las Vegas for the juggling convention and would he like to come … he did … he was so blown away by what he saw that he went back home after only one day.

When I returned I didn’t see Ray as much anymore. He started to focus more on his show. I heard all his props got stolen except his bowling balls so he started practicing & performing with them, Like anything he did, he got good real fast.

In a short time Ray went from 3 to 4 sixteen-pound bowling balls. I believe it was Sean of “Sean & Dave” who pulled Ray aside one day to show him where to get a 10 pound ball … that actually made things worse.

Do the math … 4 balls x16lbs. = 64 pounds … but 5 balls x10lbs. is only 50 pounds … making 5 bowling balls possible!!!

That guy was amazing … what he learned to do was to balance one of the bowling balls on his foot then do two in each hand … he’d kick up the fifth ball into a 5 ball (regular cascade) pattern … the kicker was the finish … a neck catch!!! … No shit … he’d catch the fuckin’ bowling ball on the back of his HEAD!

I swear to god I saw him do it … and I know juggling … not of this “he did seven flaming chainsaws” shit … a kick-up into 5 bowling balls finishing with a neck catch. Never thought someone could pull that one off … never.

One Sunday, all of the jugglers in the bay Area were all at the park … it was a glorious crisp, sunny afternoon near the Conservatory.
Donnia Ray Smith is greeted warmly by the jugglers already there; I get a special grin when he sees me because well, I’m special.

He pulls out 4 bowling balls from his duffle bag and begins to practice … first his warm up with shot-puts, then 3 bowling balls with repeated neck catches, then 2 bowling balls in each hand … and then ….for the 1st time in public … he pulls out the 5th bowling ball.

I knew he was going to try for 5 when I heard Sprach Zarathustra start playing in the background on someone's boom box. I had only seen Ray complete this trick twice in practice but obviously he wanted to show all the jugglers what would forever be impossible for them.

He didn’t announce it or anything. I was about 20 yards away; I saw a panoramic view of the scene. Tie-Dye wearing, white people tossing sparkly, glittered crap sporadically surrounding a black spinning vortex of energy. Sucking in a breath of anti-gravity, Ray gently places the fifth bowling ball balanced precariously on his right foot. With the agility of a cross between a gazelle and a gorilla, Ray launches the fifth ball amidst the other four … a few of the less stoned jugglers take notice and slowly clubs stop flipping all around him.

I saw the kick up … it was too far out … he should have bailed … and I bet he would’ve if everyone wasn’t stopping to watch him.
But Ray tried to pull in the throw and as he reached too far out with his right hand. His left hand made a good throw, but the one from his right was a little off. I knew it was gonna be tough ‘cause I’d been there before, albeit with only 1 pound bachi balls. I knew the 2nd throw from his left had to be done perfectly to kick it into the five-ball pattern. Ray’s wasn’t… just as you saw the (unbelievable to begin with) 5 bowling ball pattern emerge you heard a loud c-r-a-c-k while the two ten pounders collided right over his head. Then, almost too quickly, the balls ricochets off each other and W-H-A-C-K, one hits Ray right in the head.

Everything slowed down for me then. I stared down the field at him. Maybe 5 or 6 jugglers, out of the 30 or so there, did the same thing. This is what we saw:

He never fell down. He never grabbed his head. He never yelled in pain. He just stood there. He didn’t move at all except for occasionally shaking his head. Then, almost like he was learning to walk all over again, he started wandering around amongst the jugglers.

I really thought he was OK. I knew it was strange that he didn’t keep on practicing. I knew a 10-pound bowling ball hitting you on the head had to hurt, right? But Ray was walking around so …
I soon left the park to go do shows down at the wharf. I even waved goodbye to Ray. He didn’t give me his usual grin.

Here’s the story as I know it about what happened from then on… and I know it better than most … but a lot I got 2nd hand.

If you want this story to end happily stop reading now.

Ray remained at Peacock Meadow until around midnight. A woman jogger who saw a large black male naked near the Conservatory called SFPD.

Ray was taken into custody while insisting he was ‘Ray the Sun God’ … he was institutionalized for 6 weeks in a facility up in Novato. He was released and went on a diet of Librium and Whoppers while doing shows down at his old pitch by the cable car turnaround.

Ray lost his place in Diamond Heights and was sleeping in his van with Burger King wrappers piling up outside … he’d come out and do a grubbier and grimier shows each day until one day, he just disappeared.

I’m sorry to bum you out, but life ain’t always fair is it? I don’t even know if there is any lesson to be learned from this story. All I know is I feel very lucky to have been one of the few people that got to know this scary looking phenomena.

One short story before I go. There was this street performer competition at Pier 39. It was several years after I quit as the coordinator and an asshole named Michael Rega took over. Rega refused to let Ray enter the competition (he was a prejudiced bastard) saying his costume wasn’t good enough. I stood up for Ray along with several other acts already admitted to the contest. Sadly, Rega never allowed Ray to compete so when I won (what did you expect?) I gave him my Gold Top Hat … he was very proud as he walked away with it.

About a week later Ray gave it back … he said it meant a lot that I gave it to him. I didn’t say much because there was always the danger that Ray might kill you.

Speaking of killing … I always knew he could kill me, of course. He, literally, could have killed anyone. A lot of people didn’t know about his martial arts training. This guy was bad. Rumor has it, Ray once called ‘Bad Bad Leroy Brown’ a “pussy” and Leroy got so scared he tossed his own salad… swear to god.

One more quick one: OK, Ray had a bit of a BIG mouth … he would inflate his hats at the cable car turnaround n’stuff but the one thing he COULD do was juggle 5 bowling balls … and since nobody else could (then or now, I believe), Ray decided to let us know about it …

“I’s CAN JUGGLES 5 BOWLIN” BALLS, I’s CAN JUGGLES 5 BOWLIN” BALLS!”

So, I don’t remember what year it was, but I got this wooden mask over in Hawaii … it was made out of a huge coconut … and the guy who gave it to me saw me pretend to be Ray when I put it on.

“I’s CAN JUGGLES 5 BOWLIN” BALLS, I’s CAN JUGGLES 5 BOWLIN” BALLS!”, I mimicked.

The thing was great. It was probably the most un-politically correct mask ever made. Larger than life eyeholes, overgrown with coarse black hair eyebrows and then … these huge RED lips … you could even move them a bit with your jaw. Everybody seemed to like my impromptu (in private, of course) “Ray, The Heavy Weight Juggler bit” … so the guy, who owned it, gave me the mask.

Well, stupid me, one day Ray visited me at the Pier. It was just a couple of weeks after I gave him the Gold Hat, so I thought we were cool. Besides, we had been friends for quite awhile.

Jokingly, I pulled the mask out from my prop case (I never had used it in a show) and put it on… there was no one else around except a few passing tourists.

I say in my best pre-Eddie Murphy black guy impression, “My name Ray … I’m da Heavy Weight Juggler!
“I’s CAN JUGGLES 5 BOWLIN” BALLS, I’s CAN JUGGLES 5 BOWLIN” BALLS!”

Suddenly the mask is my only protection … I’m looking for his reaction. I see his cold, orphaned at the age of 8, lost all my family in a fire, eyes stare back at me.

I feel nauseous. His penetrating glare actually gives me an inguinal hernia.

I picture a feeble bonobos mocking a big black dangling ball silverback with Jane Goodall furiously writing in her notebook.

Nice move, Butterfly … here come da windshield!

And then, just as my asshole slammed tighter than a frog’s pussy… he grinned that unbelievable grin.

I knew then, we'd both live to see another day.

[Butterfly Man]

Sex, Drugs & Rock n' Roll

I figured out once that I spent about 10 to 15 thousand dollars a year on drugs between 81'and '86 ... it's not that much considering I bought the best quality ... luscious green bud from Humboldt ... so sticky you had to leave it out for at least a week to dry ... flake so pure you could see yourself in the translucent crystals ... Jesus ... no wonder I don't remember much.

A couple of events do stand out though ... one, being really, really high one afternoon while in bed with a semi-professional cheerleader (hey, those were her words, I never really even asked) when my father called to tell me my sister had be killed by a truck. I had a show that night for someone, somewhere ... I remember the laughter being so surreal, I was so detached ... and when the show finished ... I dedicated the show to her ... the cheerleader.

Another involved these two young girls (gosh I hope they were 18) and a mirror (which ironically had a butterfly engraved in it) in which I was spelling out their names across the surface in coke. Actually, I probably wouldn't have remembered this instance either except I found some Polaroid's years later (stuck in a book) ... I'll show 'em to you if my wife isn't around.

I watched a lot of people lose it on drugs ... like Whitney ... he went from dog act-to standup-to colleges-to Saturday Night Live and then lost everything ... not me ... always in moderation ... I only binged a coupla' times in all those years ... like the time with whatshername, the ballet dancer from uh, South Carolina, maybe ... she thought it was so cool I knew French (and I thought it was so cool that I was able to convince her I did) ... oooh, man was she hot! ... I think she gave me an inguinal hernia.

Then people started dying around me ... all fags, so I hardly noticed. San Francisco early '80s ... no one knew what the fuck was happening ... honestly, I didn't care, I had the best weed, purist coke, finest women (ok, that one mother-daughter combination was a little weird) and a kick ass character ("Fuck me, you'll never go back to women" ... came from then).

Sometime in January of 1986, I woke up one morning in my beautiful Victorian flat right on the edge of the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park ... I had it all ... lots of everything a typically shallow individual like myself could want ... money (hey, the drug habit hardly made a dent), women (they weren't dying so what the hell) and a modicum of fame (OK, I was a fuckin' god).

Like I said, I was waking up, sitting on the edge of my king size, red and black satin sheeted waterbed (what a low rent fuckin' slut, I was) and staring at the mirror on my bedside table ... all smudged with fingerprints now, a small pile of coke remained ... I picked up the razor blade ... made the fattest, longest line I've ever made (from one edge of the foot square mirror to the other, back and forth a coupla times) ... put the razor down (gotta remember to do that, when you're doing quantity) ... I picked up the ready rolled $100 (never a $1) ... inhaled slowly and evenly several times ... calmed myself and then proceeded to snort a little over three quarters of a gram in one shot.

(Whew)


I didn't do any coke again for seven goddamn years.

[Dan Holzman]

good clean fun

Robert,
Great stories, I really enjoyed reading the whole thread. It was nice to see you at the convention, I'm glad I had a chance to have breakfast together with you and Kumi.
Take care,
Dan

[Butterfly Man]

I get the travel bug

I decided to fly to Hawaii the next day … sort things out, I thought … with no drugs (hahahaha Hawaii with no drugs hahahaha). A British expatriate named Graham was having a juggling convention (the 1st one) on the Big Island of Hawaii …
it was such an awesome experience …midnight fire torch juggling on the lava flows … skinny-dipping in warm ponds … passing clubs with naked women on the black sand beach … yum … this was great … I didn’t miss the coke at all.

Some street performers from Boston showed up to join us, the Waldo & Woodhead Show … we all hooked up with Bejji, Jeanie and Robertini (One Ring Circus) did some shows together in Hilo and later on Maui & Kauai as well. I was standing next to Graham one day and I noticed his passport … it was page after page of visas and stamps from all these different countries … Singapore … Bali … Nicaragua … exotic places from all over the world … that’s what I wanted, I thought … I was gonna travel.

Within a few months I had flown to Amsterdam and bought a piece of shit looking Peugeot van … it was mechanically sound though & my prop case fit perfectly between the refrigerator, sink & bed … it was destiny and it was to become my European home on and off for the next three years.

I started off doing shows in the Leidseplein, which was easy because everyone spoke English. I must admit there were times I felt like I was in a Fellini film (I worked next to fireblower who asked me to hold his teeth when he performed (they would melt he said) and I hung out in a wild scene at night at a place called the Melkweg. It was just one continuous party wherever I went and I pretty much stayed stoned the entire time … the Dutch are very cool people … I found them to be smart and sexy and not nearly so inhibited (on or off stage) as Americans ... too bad about their fucked up language though.

Everyone seemed to talk about the money being better in Paris, so after a week or so, off I went. My first day in Paris I had to practically fight over my right to perform @ Pompidou … as I was setting up my stuff this fat asshole with dart holes in his gigantic stomach starts screaming at me in French … interestingly enough, since I lived in France when I was younger and remembered how to swear a bit, I told him basically to (translation) … FUCK OFF!
He never bothered me again.

In Paris, I ran into another American juggler named Cotton … he had flaming red hair … was a far better technical juggler, fluent in the languages I only dabbled in … and … unbelievable as this may sound … took even more drugs.

Cotton told me about his “secret” pitch in Gent (sure, if it’s so “secret” why you tellin’ me?) and various other spots to check out in Germany (Cologne, Düsseldorf, Heidelberg & Munich). My act turned quickly into expressions I had heard my mother scream at me when I was growing up (she was born in Hamburg) … and believe me when I say, I did some screaming myself!!! (Driving the Autobahn @ 80klm/hr. when others are doing 150!!!).

Of all the busking spots though, Italy, was by far the best … the best weather … the best scenery … the best audiences. Every town I visited had a central piazza and each evening families would stroll arm-in-arm down to it. I’d show up … props in tow and they would follow me pied piper like and wait patiently while I set up … unbelievable! Too bad the money sucked … however, I was invited home for dinner … got offers for places to stay … the people were the best … simply the best.

I ran into another street juggler in Spain (there weren’t many) named Moonbeam and he showed me around the country (the money sucked there too) … “We have to watch each others back in Madrid and especially in Barcelona (on La Rambla)!”, he told me once … then, when I turned my back on him at the Alhambra, he ripped off my leather jacket … someday, I’m gonna find that fucker!

So, I know only a bunch of street performers are reading this and you all are thinking “so where’s the money, Robert?”

The money (back then anyway) was in Switzerland … awesome Zurich, beautiful Bern … everything so clean … even the money … it didn’t look like much in the hat, but a handful of change turned out to $3-400 hats … the other big money place (again, back then) was the UK … and I don’t mean the major pitches like Covent Garden or even working “the mound” during the Edinburgh festival … it was in teensy weensy (like Leicester) towns all over England , Wales (Cardiff) & Ireland (Cork) having “busking competitions” …I dunno, maybe it was the years I went that they seemed to be everywhere … I’d just show up and walk away with prize money equivalent sometimes up to 800 pounds … once, I did two in one day (did the other while waiting for the results from the first) … there was no competition … all the British crème de la crème acts were already booked … everybody else was crap… it was so great … I had to open a bank account in each country (under a different name, of course) in order to cash all those checks.

[Butterfly Man]

Britannia Rules the streets

The acts in Great Britain were the best … oh, there were some who rivaled them, like the legendary Jango Edwards (who was an American residing in Amsterdam) and of course, the famous Italian provocateur, Leo Bassi, but for the most part Britain had the most dynamic performers. Even the most successful acts from the streets of San Francisco (Robert Shields/Harry Anderson/Mike Davis/A. Whitney Brown) paled in comparison. Strangely enough, though they also had the worst acts. I guess it’s because the English will watch anything … so those acts that were good … simply got great (the audience allowing them to take huge risks onstage) and those that sucked somehow survived (on the Dole).

Far above even the top acts, was a young acrobat & martial artist named Captain KeanO … apparently he had “grown up” watching the renowned Chris the Piss and decided to go him one better. He was the only act that I saw who intentionally (and continuously) went “over the line” with his audience, making them hate him and then (in an amazing display of virtuosity) turn it all around and make them love him again. He was a skilled technician and master craftsman and definitely my pick for the best street performer I’ve ever seen.

Back in the states we had some standout acts as well … besides those already mentioned, there was a guy who worked Washington Square Park in NYC named Charlie Barnett. Charlie was a young black comic who could mesmerize a crowd (he worked the fountain). Charlie had what I call a “street-street” type of act … it really didn’t work anywhere else quite as well as the street … he was (oh so) NOT politically correct … his act was (by American standards) very profane and irreverent but he was just plain (fuckin’) hilarious.

There was another guy from America who was amazing as well … he worked Venice Beach and his name was Peter Petofsky. Peter never talked during his act and did what was known as “follow mime” (making fun of passer-by’s) … it’s almost impossible to describe the outrageous things that he would do to people … it’s a small wonder he is still alive.

I watched a slew of other acts all over Europe during those years (including the well known comic Eddie Izzard) … but those British acts were the ones that impressed me the most … everybody except one ignorant, arrogant, overrated, cups and balls clone named Gazzo … that moron must have had a recessive gene … that or his mother had fucked a frog.

[Butterfly Man]

Buskerfests abound

Back in the States & Canada things called “Buskerfests” started to pop up. I believe the romantic ropewalker, Will Soto (down in Key West) was the first to put one together and remarkably enough, Will was also the first to screw everybody (except Cyrus of course) out of their travel/per diem money. Let’s just say that Will was enjoying LIFE a bit too much those days … years later he made it up by sending us all $100 checks (I still have mine … I figure it’ll be worth something, someday).

Around that that time, I met a producer named Dick Finkle up in Boston at one of the “Orangina” Street Fests … he was aware of the expanding network of street performers and decided to morph his existing Canadian folk festival into The Edmonton Street Performers Festival (in Alberta). Amongst others who performed at the fist festival were the incredible wirewalker and NY street pioneer, Philippe Petit, and the godfather of all San Francisco street jugglers, Ray Jason. I went the next year (and every other year after that, for the next 20 years).

On the opposite side of Canada, in Halifax, Nova Scotia the anti-Christ of festival producers emerged. His name was Dale Thompson (his name still makes me shudder). I’m not sure how he did it, but he got a disgusting amount of sponsorship money from sickening amount of Canadian corporations, plus, he got the whole town of Halifax (every damn storefront) to promote his event.

A $10,000 first prize (and a beautiful bronze sculpture of a “busker”) was offered for the People’s Choice Award winner (Rick & Mardene (yum) of Variety In Motion (husband/wife juggling team won the 1st year)… it brought out the worst in some of the acts (read Ray) but not me, I didn’t give a rat’s ass (no way I could win anyway). Despite the competition, it was a huge success and the following year a $5,000 and a trophy was awarded (The Waldo-Woodhead Show won) … then the next year: $2,500 and a plaque (The Flying Dutchmen won) … it went down each successive year until it was chump change and an 8X10 picture of the statue (how pathetic). I think now, with Dale’s former secretary Kim running the show, it’s at a point where the winner gets to pay Kim their entire life savings (make sure it’s rolled) and receives the illustrious honor & privilege to become her indentured slave for life. She sure has learned her lessons from the Prince of Darkness well.

In the ensuing years a host of other buskerfests started to spring up all across the Canadian provinces (Waterloo / Kingston/ Nelson/ Windsor et al). These days, it’s theoretically possible to work across from Vancouver to Newfoundland, all summer long provided you either a spy for or sleep with Kim ... *that was just mean ... (sorry, I'll delete that in a day or two after everybody reads it).

The United States (always lagging behind the rest of the world) has had a few feeble attempts at buskerfests over the years, Will’s fiasco parts I & II (Key West) and a coupla’ Boston, NYC and LA one’s that fizzled) … the only major player that has survived the test of time (and now rocks) is Al Kraizer’s Denver Buskerfest.

On a final note, the biggest success (since Edmonton got Shell to produce after Finkle retired) is (IMHO) Jodi Wright’s World Buskerfest down in Christchurch, New Zealand … if you are a busker you have to do this fest … too much fun … too much money … stay humble Jodi.

[Butterfly Man]

Nippon ginko

Over the next few years I made a point to do as many Buskerfests as possible. They were without a doubt the most fun I had in my life. I got to meet and make friends with the most interesting performers from all over the world.

Once I realized I could go just about anywhere in the world to make money, I took to the skies, landing in all those exotic places I had only dreamed of going years before (while gazing at Graham’s passport).

My first stop was Japan. I’ll never forget those bright lights as I landed in Osaka the very first time ... so much neon it made the strip in Las Vegas look lame by comparison. I was extremely nervous because not only didn’t I speak a word of Japanese, I also had no idea how to do a show there (would they even laugh at the same things?). Entertaining the Japanese turned out to be challenging but much easier than I expected. They loved my mistakes with the language, they loved my slapstick approach to comedy and most of all … they loved my head.

I had a wig made before I went to Japan because I had read somewhere that they equate tattoos with the Yakusa (Japanese Mafia), but I never wore it. What I didn’t realize was that since I was gaijin, (foreigner) I was not subject to their social ethics. This made it easy to do street shows too because if I ever ran into a policeman who disapproved of what I was doing, I just started to yell and scream about my “rights” … they hated confrontation and they would invariably back down.

I thought I had made good money as a street performer up until then but I was astounded at the unbelievable (downright filthy) amount I could make there. Suffice it to say that I made in a day about what I could make in Canada in a week (if I worked hard). Over the years I have watched a number of street acts go over there and never come back. Most all of them are now old, fat and rich.

On a sidebar now, I must tell you about the women … in Osaka I went out at night and even though I am downright butt ugly (by most standards) I was swarmed with gorgeous, sexy Japanese girls. It got to the point where my standards were so high I would find myself (in an expensive Love Hotel) lying next to some Asian goddess. They all wanted a gaijin because we were exotic to them and they all wanted to practice their English. Maybe that’s not the only reason but to be sure, they made me feel BIGGER than life and IMMENSELY (if you know what I mean) appreciated.

One day when I was doing shows in Fukuoka (on the southern most island of Kyushu) I got hit on the side of my head with a juggling club … my ear swelled up (cauliflower), so I had to see a Japanese doctor. After the show a pretty 21 year old came up to me and in pretty decent English told me she liked it. I asked her to accompany me as a translator to see the doctor (she turned out to be funny as hell) and well, I’ve been married to her for over 15 years.

After Japan, I did yet another summer of buskerfests up in Canada and then I decided to take my beautiful bride to Australia & New Zealand. I had never been there, had always wanted to go and knew now that all I had to do was ... buy a ticket.

[Butterfly Man]

The land Down Unda - "Wicked!" "Choice!"

When I went to buy a ticket to Australia I found out a round-the-world-ticket was about the same price, so I opted for two of those … it turned out to be a smart move.

We flew to Singapore for a short stay and then went onto land in Perth on the western coast of Australia. We got a fancy hotel and I went down to the mall to smell out a pitch. I ran into Waldo (of the Waldo-Woodhead show). He was going solo and traveling the world like I was. We did shows back to back in the ensuing weeks and while the money was decent, it was nowhere near what I made in Japan. I didn’t really care though, I was enjoying the Australians despite the fact that they were not as responsive during the shows as I thought they would be (in SF they were always so loud and boisterous). I guess they were more reserved on their own turf. I think it was the fact that I was an American (had that arrogant nasal accent) that made them feel that way. Like I said, I did well (they ALL came up to put $ in the hat) despite the lackluster response I was getting.

I got robbed of a weeks worth of cash while I was in Perth so I decided to fly to Sydney and try my luck out there. I stayed with an American juggler named Marty Coffee who had moved there and become a star almost overnight (by stealing material from Michael Davis, Frank Olivier and even some from me). I didn’t give a shit really as Marty was a gracious host with a stylin’ pad on Bondi Beach. Marty even got me into Darling Harbor’s (the Pier 39 of Sydney) Street Performer Competition at the last minute. I won and Marty bought my prize (2 roundtrip tickets to London) for $3,500 … Jesus … go ahead, TAKE my lines … PLEASE!

From Sydney, I traveled south to Surfer’s Paradise (just below Brisbane). I hooked up with a guy from the city council named Branden Foley. He had this street fest of sorts, called it Street Live ... it was to be going on for awhile, so my darling wife and I rented an apartment on the beach (ahhh). All the Brits I had met previously (including KeanO and a few Americans (Master Lee from NY) were there as well. We all dominated Cavill Mall & Southport all that winter and I really had a great time despite the fact that this was the first time in my life that I was with only one woman (and my god those Australian women were sexy).

Local Australian acts (like the famous Zip & Zap & the Antibodies) steered me to Melbourne and Adelaide, both of which welcomed street performers as well. My new wife was obviously not enjoying her stay as much as I (she didn’t have anything to do all night), so after New Years we decided to hop on a flight over to New Zealand, just to see what was happening.

I landed in Auckland and rented one of those camper vans. We headed south through one devastatingly beautiful country (I never saw so many fuckin’ sheep). I had heard of three famous street jugglers years ago (Renee Schwalar, Michael River and Mr. Moon) that lived in NZ, so I went off in search of them, adventure and any pitch I’d happen onto.

I traveled all over both the North & South islands and did shows in Wellington (Cuba Mall), Queenstown (Renee’s spot) and Christchurch (Mr. Moon ruled) but the most amazing part was when I went up to find Mike River (near Nelson) and was forced to drive down the west coast of the South island … the scenery was so breathtaking (and changed drastically to something completely different ever 50K or so) … that when I reached the Milford Sound on the bottom of the island I fully expected a goddamn Hobbit to cross the road in front of me. (I wasn’t surprised that Lord of the Rings was filmed down there … I just went “of course!).

I finished off my stay back up in Auckland … working 11 days @ The Commonwealth Games. A local magician/mime/Sufi named Tara Divia got me the gig and I met a slew of other performers working the same gig as well, including my good friend to this day, Dave Sheridan (a strongman back then).

[Butterfly Man]

Cha cha cha changes

From Auckland we flew to Fiji and then back to San Francisco stopping off at the Big Island to hang with all the jugglers at the (now 5th) Hawaiian Vaudeville Convention.

They didn’t have private bathrooms or showers (they still don’t) so my modest wife threw a fit and we had to bail off to Oahu … it became quite clear that my bride didn’t quite share my choice of lifestyle. I guess shitting in a hole in the ground and people running around naked wasn’t quite her cup of green tea.

Within moments after arriving home in San Francisco, she kicked out Marcus Marconi (yes, he stayed with me in three different houses, over a period of 7 years) from my basement and told Jeff, my magician friend who crashed in the living room, to beat it as well … fuck, I thought I was gonna be next … this Jap bitch was cleaning house! For years, I had always opened my home to performers … this was (and still is) a source of friction between us. Fuck, what’s wrong with having a few talented, self-absorbed megalomaniacs around all the time … I ask you?

Then, she really shocked me … she got a job! “A what?” I said. “Why would you want one of those?”, I asked. I didn’t even KNOW anybody anymore that had one of THOSE (what were they called again?) …. oh yeah … JOBS! (ugh, just sounds ugly, doesn’t it?) … I never could quite figure out why she did that. But I soon figured out how to get her to quit … getting a gig in a place she wanted to go.

When I told her my friend Paul Moracco was putting together a festival in Cardiff she got really excited because (I found out then) she was really interested in art and always wanted to go to London … so she quit … heh heh heh … off to the UK for another go … but this time I was going with “The Eriminator” (my term of endearment for her at this point).

After landing in Gatwick, I must admit it was amazing how she figured out all the transportation to and from trains, the Tube (London Underground) and all the times and places and where to go and what to see and the best time to see it … touristy stuff. Jesus, I hadn’t seen the changing of the guard since I was a kid (I didn’t give a fuck then either). Mercifully, I had a gig to do and off we went to Cardiff (during a heat wave). I missed my van … I missed hanging out at Covent Garden … I missed getting drunk and fucked up.

Despite goddamn early morning construction singers and the bloody fuckin’ heat we rocked as well as one can rock with the Welsh. The festival paid us cash (thickass stack of 20£ notes) and I gave it to her for safekeeping (who’s gonna pick on a cute little Asian chick who dresses like shit eh?) … so then, as a kind gesture, she offers to take care of counting all rest of my hat money for me (yeah, sure, go ahead … knock yourself out). That gave me some time to go party alone with my old pals Waldo and Zip (Dom) and (Andy) Zap … and what was even better, was that some kid named Donald Grant showed up (he was learning the diabolo), so we didn’t have to worry about scoring any drugs.

After Cardiff we all headed for Glasgow. A company called StreetBiz (with a remarkably similar name and logo to a current company in Australia hmmmm) was trying to get a festival together downtown. Pepe (it’s a tough call as to who is the better follow mime, Pep or Petofsky, but who gives a shit, they’re both brilliant) was there and wasn’t performing because he had the shit kicked out of him just the night before, apparently his attitude didn’t quite gel with some local Glasgow boys. I took his spot. It turned out to be a shitty gig and I was relieved when it started to rain after a few shows. I bailed and went off to see Circus Archaos … that was cool … especially when the cops came and shut it down (the nude hand-balancers they said).

After Glasgow we headed over to the Edinburgh Festival to check out the scene. It was good to see my old pal Andy still climbing up between the columns splitlegged … the act that year was ‘The Uncles’ (John Fealy, Sean Gandini (later to do the Gandini Project), Alex Dandridge (of Chris and Alex) and Mark you know, Mark, future Le la Les Mark … you know, married Ali … fuck! … the squirrelly little acrobatic monkey one … shit ... Alzheimers) Those four were blowing people off ‘the mound’ … I didn't stand a chance so I worked on the side (for the first time) and got people BEFORE they saw their show ... even the bagpipers were leaving early.

I’m not sure how many times I’ve been to Edinburgh but I definitely remember this was the ONLY time I went to see the Military Tattoo up at the Castle ... Ms. Slantyhighbrow wants to watch a boring bunch of wankers in faggy tartan uniforms marching up and down a concrete football field … big fuckin’ deal … I'd rather watch Chris the Piss stick a banger (Roman candle) up his ass … maybe it’ll blow up! (it did, the next year)

We got free train ride back to London (courtesy of SteetBiz) saw more of that British Museum artsy fartsy shit while hanging out at Paddy (soon to be Famos) Bramwells and Lorna’s place …. My last memory of that trip was doing a duo show with Captain KeanO at Covent Garden … I should write about that someday …

[Butterfly Man]

I said ... shut up!

We 'jumped the pond' back to San Francisco and, luckily, I got a slew of corporate gigs in exotic locals to keep the wife occupied for a while.

You know the type of gig … some rich rotund truncated Tyco types hire some former ‘B’ celebrity (like Cliff Robertson (whoopdie doo!) to show up to their fi$tfuck fest on a private island (Cat Cay) off the coast of Florida somewhere. My lovely narrow eyed, Buddha lover dug those helicopter rides in and out … her first, how adorable. Me? well, I was pissed I didn’t get my OWN golf cart! (Where’s the “value added”, boys!?).

After one such show, I remembered being quite impressed when I heard they were drawing numbers for a yacht (“Fuck”, I thought … a fuckin’ yacht!”). Still, what a bunch of losers … I mean, come on!!! … Their door prize was a George Forman Grill … how gauche is that?

Most of the corporate work I got was in and around Orlando. I knew several agents in the area and was always flying in and out. Because of this overexposure to Disney World traffic, I found it to be a time when I really got to hate kids (really)... on planes especially (I even fashioned a mini-pin prod out of one of my fire eating extension wands, so I could stab the little fuckers behind my seat). The only good part about it was that my old pal Harry Lovecraft had moved down there, so had Alan Krulick (of Boston’s legendary Shakespeare Bros.) and also my taffy sculptor friend, Masaji Terasawa (he had a cushy gig @ Epcot for 11 years).

So, all this time that I'm sweatin’ down there sucking corporate cock$, I always found the time to visit some old decaying vaudevillian at the same time … what a rich and fulfilling life that was. Fuck that, I was miserable … this sucked as bad as walk-around crap … I had to be careful what I did … watch what I said … couldn’t always get high before a show … and what did I get out of it, besides thousands and thousands of dollars? … not much, I’ll tell you that.

… a Minor sidebar …

In between these very green gigs, I put together a 1961 Morris Minor Pick-up truck (shut up!)… It had been completely disassembled (by me) on a coke binge in Santa Cruz 9 years earlier. I had been carrying all the parts in boxes since then. I told you to SHUT UP!!

Anybody who talks to me about cars or engines for 5 minutes, can tell I am a moron and don’t know Jack. My father wasn’t exactly a motor head, so I never learnt nothin’ … (I still don’t know shit) about cars … especially how to put one together from scratch.

My first brilliant idea was to buy a really expensive wrench set (Metric & Standard) … and then (wouldn’t ya’ know it, with my fuckin’ luck)… turns out this British piece of shit has this weird screw/nut/bolt thread called Whatthefuckisthisworth, or something like that. I told you to “SHUT UP”, and I mean it this time!

They say mistakes are the stepping-stones to failure … after about 7 months and about 173 bruised thumbs, 214 gashed forefingers, multitudinous nicks, bangs, and bumps e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e … I, by the grace of the Prince of Darkness of electrical components, LUCUS, finally got the “Tonka” to run … it still runs today (well into it’s second decade) … so fuck all of you that said I couldn’t do it, especially you, Paul Adams ... fuck you and the '62 Porche you rode in on!

I dedicate this last rant to Checkerhead … he is the only one who has ever shown any true sympathy.