To Spain

BUCINE

What in the world is this place? The Spectre Club? I did not guess at what it was. I did not guess that it would be a sprawling villa in the Italian countryside, with the breeze reeking of rosemary and other herbs, fun dogs roaming the hills of grape vines and olive trees. Also, I did not guess that so many many people would find their way to this secret place. What a place. They cooked something pretty good for us. There was a pool and they gave us our own house to sleep in.

Also what I didn't guess was that I would get to pal around and gab with a unit of Americans. What a relief, to speak english casually. And they were a good band too, also on tour. They hailed from Milwaukee and were called the "Midwest Beat". They sang harmony over a type of souped up country music.

We stayed awake for a long time, not wanting to say goodbye to the villa and leave for the land of Nod. We milled around on the lawn. The owner fed us strange liquors from his homemade bar. It is rumoured that one of these liquors was discovered en masse behind a wall of an Italian home when it changed ownership. The new occupants were rennovating and tore down a wall to find a cache of a very strong, flavourful, aromatic spicy moonshine. They decided to bottle it up and sell it and I thank them for that.

The Spectre club is inside the great home of the mother of a rock and roller who is also a part-time medical supply salesman. He and his ma run the club a few times a month. They built a stage and a bar inside part of the house and it is fantastic. Friendly folk here. I enjoyed greatly shooting shit and cracking wise with the Americans, talking about Europe and the Midwest, Native Americans, bands we had been in, the marijuana we couldn't locate in Europe. I hope to see them again.

I dreaded our morning this time because we had fallen into a habit of protracted, slow-starting mornings where I was teased and tortured by hunger while I waited for our party to rise and gather. When I was lucky, we would be in a commercial neighborhood where I could slink off in the bright morning and find a grocery store to construct a crude breakfast. I knew that this time we were very far from anything, in the beautiful countryside of dirt roads and rustic mansions. People slowly rose and showered and smoked and milled about. The promoter promised a breakfast in the morning, since there was nowhere nearby to eat. By the time we finally ate, it was close to 5 o'clock, and what we ate was one bowl of a kind of rice porridge each. Maybe it was a type of risotto. We must be raised differently, or maybe it's my hypoglycemia, but when I wake I need to eat something pretty soon. I don't do well to wait 5 hours before eating anything. But I guess this is the Italian way. As soon as we left the house to get to the next city, we stopped at a grocery store to eat while I raised a formal complaint about the morning food routine.

PRATO

What a dumb show. I don't even have anything much to write about this. Actually, I must say here that our hosts were mostly very nice and friendly and good intentioned and there was an audience. It was less than an hour from the last show in a dull industrial zone. We were lost and asked a warehouse man if he knew where the rock and roll club was. He didn't know anything about it and we feared we may have doomed the place by revealing it's secret whereabouts.

It was a kind of teenage goth/industrial club. A large warehouse painted black with colored lights and lots of unintented steampunk industrial accoutrement. Metal fixtures and chain link and copper pipes and things. Opposite the stage, painted large across the wall was an uncle fester / dark city type pale ostrich egg-headed lurker with it's goggling eyes trained on the stage. It was the only thing I could see while we played.

Some people came to see us. Two typical teenage bands opened the show. Little post punk outfits. There was a bowl of popcorn for everyone and for dinner, they cooked us something outside in the kitchen of an RV. It was a crude salad, bare hot dogs and unnacompanied sausage patties. Whoa. I ate a lot of popcorn. I am glad that no one I knew outside of the band was there to see me desperately eating this embarassing meal. But, I do thank them for the effort and for feeding us. It was very sweet. I am often nagged, though, by the thought that I'd rather spend our money on great food of our choosing than force some poor strangers to cobble together a meal for us as cheaply as possible.

They had arranged for us to sleep in the RV and on the couches in the venue. We later discovered that the RV belonged to one of the organizers (a little bridge troll of a man with thin hair like melted polyster or a wig that had accidentally been run through the drier) when he insisted on sleeping in there as well with Las Ardillas. I guess he didn't have any way to get home. Luckily, Linda showed up again and played foosball with us and drank with us and let us sleep at her house again.

At the end of the night there was a major disagreement about money and dear Peter had to drag it out of them in a protracted argument. And Linda and her friend scolded the young promoter for blatantly copying her flier and her online event invitation, both of which she made personally, creating the flier design and writing an enthusiastic and in-depth description of her event.

The next morning, I would get to eat rabbit.

LA SPEZIA

What a bizarre event. We checked sound around 8 at the Shake Club and the staff of cool old Italian bearded rock and roller men warned us that in La Spezia, often a bar will be empty until just before midnight, and that people arrive suddenly in packs. We killed time in the soundproof green room, where every sound within felt muffled by snow. We got sad around 11:30 when so far only Linda and her friend, who we were very glad to see, had showed up. Just before we played at midnight, about 30 people arrived. Weird.

Somebody DJ'd CDs and we danced until late.

We didn't see much of the town, but it seemed like a sleepy little industrial town. Behind the 3 story bar was a weird cement slag pit of scum and trickling pipes. It smelled weird. On the ground floor of the place there was a shabby plywood maze leading first to an outdoor stage and then to two flights of stairs up into the main bar. It was a fine place to hang around.

VALENCE

This was a very fine place. On a charming cobblestone alley, big private back room, very friendly staff, a not-bad hot meal, a pre-meal of bowls of nuts and cheese poofs and a massive wheel of brie and some other fine cheese and wine, a mini fridge full of beer and pudding, wireless internet and Pete DJ'd some great stuff that sadly no one danced to.

For some reason, the staff wanted us to arrive for soundcheck at 2pm. We said no and we arrived around 7pm.

A ton of people came to see us very early. In fact, the sound man came into the back room around 9:15 where we were goofing off and told us we would play in 10 minutes because so many people were there and they didn't want them to have to wait around forever. We were caught off-guard and felt unprepared to play. I wish they had told us earlier what time we would be playing so we could be mentally prepared. We assumed it would be around 11 or midnight.

In the morning the town was beautiful. Rugged stony crumbly hills and mountains could be seen all around in the distance surrounding the city. The whole drive into town was very beautiful. Coastal mountains, green and full of tunnels and little clustered villages perched impossibly on them.

BARCELONA

O, what strange adventures were had in Barcelona. I highly recommend this crazy city, except of course for the disgusting and incredibly aggressive attitude that the men take in the evening toward the women.

In the day, it was a bright and clean place with a maze of nautical poles and apparatus in the harbor, appearing to mimic the abundance of large and modern sculptural public art. Tourists walked about.

I did a thing I hadn't done in many weeks. I had a hamburger and ate it. The hip and colorful restaurant of the venue served us a lemonade-beer concoction that was A+, number 1. For lighting, they employed the rustic antique lightbulbs that are large and transparent with the illuminated coil plainly visible which are all the rage these days. Perhaps a willful defiance of green ethics, asserting aesthetic and mood over the concept of environmental responsibility.

The streets were bright and busy after nightfall, and they remained that way until after 4am. The show began at 1am. I wondered why until it was explained to me that this venue would have three shows that night, because it was a Friday and they didn't want to waste any opportunity. IT explained the little group of stragglers that were inside when we arrived, leftovers from the previous show. Until 9pm there was a hip hop show, and then our show from 12:30-3am, and then after that some kind of DJ event until heaven knows what hour. It was a huge black chic place with high ceilings and a thick curtain for the stage and a dressing room with very heavy wooden sliding doors and as soon as we finished playing, the staff hurriedly ushered everyone out of the place to make way for the next event.

The Spainiards are real affectionate, touchy touchy and kissy and have a general lack of fear or shame about using their whole bodies to communicate with others. It's fun.

The city was still bustling when we left and we followed some friends through town to a rooftop apartment. The route there was like nothing I had ever seen. We wound through the narrowest labrynth of unmarked dusty cobblestone alleys, tall and weathered stone buildings on either side climbing up into the sparking canopy of stars and moon overhead. We shambled hastily on our way, a lollygagging and drunken ensemble weaving through the crowds of revelers, surprising in number at this hour, past rows of closed shops and restaurants in these calustrophobic alleys, mute corrugated aluminum gates and shutters pulled over their facades like so many eyelids, stealing away the color within and giving the street an overwhelming dull gray brown stone hue.

It seemed to go on forever and I quickly gave up trying to remember the way there. En route, Shannon was grabbed by some creepy Spainiard and she punched him in the face, but not before accidentally punching one of our companions when she tried to get between them. Such activity is simply par for the course in Barcelona.

The rooftop felt like a secret after-hours hideaway at the top some Morrocan cafe. The stairs leading there were massive and wooden and the paint was peeling from the walls and the steps revealing the stone underneath and it was all lit by bare bulbs sticking out of the walls. All around you could see the tops of ancient buildings and the light coming up from the city and weird spires and things on the skyline. Bleary eyed partyfolk loitered on the roof, lounging on little lawn chair mattresses. Everything was happening in Spanish and so I spent most of the time in a hammock staring at the moon overhead and searching for constellations. We conversed intimiately of cosmic stuff.

After 5am we found a taxi home. We didn't want to brave the creeps of the street again and risk some offensive interaction. I was shocked at how near a major street was to this place when one of the Spaniards quickly and nimbly guided us out of the maze around a blind corner and onto a thoroughfare where taxis were plenty.

Scarab hunting in Morroco

I've heard legend of the incredible cuisine of Europe, but if it is here, I haven't seen it or tasted it. Someone is hiding it from me. We've been fed mostly like peasants; rices and salads and soups and the like; nibblins, with an occasional good meal. The language barrier does make it difficult to enjoy the restaurants. Sometimes all you can do is gaze longingly through the restaurant windows like some sooty orphan, knowing you can't understand the menu or order reliably, crippled by a funny ignorance. Today, I ate a rabbit. It was distinctly chickenesque.

We didn't go scarab hunting or even to Morroco. But I thought I might hook some people with that title.

KONSTANZ

Konstanz was where we really discovered MDMA. I didn't eat any, but everyone else did. Sometimes I like to let other people try things so I can see what happens. The first dose of MDMA appeared in Amsterdam, our first night. But that was mild in comparison. Also, in Konstanz, we had a supply of 30 or more tablets.

The bar was a retro styled place. Curvaceous old furniture, bold colors, dark wood. They let us drink anything we want. The promoter, Daniel, prepared for us a luxuriant barbecue of food in the alley behind the club. It was one of the best meals of tour; an endless array of sauced meats.

With the MDMA, Shannon was dancing like never before, Ian was babbling at me about the sensations of MDMA, about seeing the faces of his ancestors lining the walls, smiling down at him approvingly; a warm, familial feeling. And about the writings of Kurt ... something, and his concept of oscillating waves representing states of humanity, genius at the top and subhumans at the bottom. Something like that. And he asserted that we must learn Spanish. It was imperative. He had a crazed insect look in his eye, an unblinking and super/subhuman focus on the face of whoever he was talking to.Luckily, Shannon stopped Ian from idle entering the staff kitchen because she knew that there was some discrete fucking going on within. Koki combined dose after dose of MDMA with something like 30 beers, and by 1am he could barely manipulate the muscles in his eyelids sufficiently to expose his pupils; he was blinded! His eyelids dropping shut and his enfeebled muscles straining to keep them open. The muscles of his jaw were void of all tension and his slack, open mouth would certainly not close again until morning.

Koki and I fell asleep around 2am on the longest couch I've ever seen while the screaming backstage cigarette party raged on for hours. At some point I was roused and guided groggily upstairs to our sleeping quarters. But before that happened, we had to wake Koki. The room was enshrouded in a bluish haze of smoke. When he didn't wake immediately, we slapped him many times and screamed in his face. We jostled and sat him upright, but received no feedback. Some of us were convinced that he was actually dead. It wasn't until we lifted him and forced him to stand that his body showed any sign of life. It shuffled like some ancient golom, summoned from the soil, and it began to walk on it's own, the eyes open. We slept. Shannon slept in a child's room with a crib and toddler toys, an eyeless old plastic baby doll, and the walls decorated strangely with large sexy lady posters and swimsuit models cut out of magazines in picture frames.

The morning was fine. Koki awoke shockingly chipper and he and I walked through town, bought some morning snack and belittled passersby in our own language. The town was very pleasant; a little cobblestone row of boutiques and college student. We saw a German man shaking his infant child in play, but maybe a little too roughly. We feared for it's brittle neck bones. I heard a rumor later that Koki had eaten more MDMA in the morning to feel good. But most everyone reported feeling fine in the morning. We thought maybe it had to do with the pharmaceutical grade of the MDMA, formulated to not deplete your brain juices in the night.

STRASBOURG

I don't even want to say anything about Strasbourg. It was the ultimate bummer. I was very sick. Shannon was sick. About 6 people showed up to watch us play. The bar was neat. The stage was in a day glo blue lit basement cave down some spiral stairs. The DJ booth was an odd geometric multi-gon made of triangles. They did give us a very nice apartment above the venue with two sets of bunk beds and a washing machine. I didn't know that the machine didn't work until after I loaded it full of my clothes. It was full of water and it really sincerely wanted to start, but it could not. I carried around a sack of wet socks for a few days, hanging them up whenever I could. Also, the wifi was nice.

The morning streets were nice; cobblestone squares and little alleys. A college was nearby and there was an America themed cheeseburger shop with the walls painted with big imitation Lichtensteins.

ST GALLEN

I was still sick in St Gallen, but almost well. My singing was still terrible. It would be terrible for another week. In a week I would discover hot tea.

The venue was a small hotel in a narrow alley with a little cul de sac of bars and Japanese restaurants at the end. The snug little street was so winding and narrow and hidden between petite looking buildings that were just tall enough to obscure the rest of the town in every direction, that it appeared there was no city beyond those walls, just a snaking antique maze, a Seussian circuit of odd sized businesses packed narrowly together. The dramatic lighting of street lamps made it seem we were all on a weird stage or dolls inside of a miniature of a real town, all of the buildings just theatrical facades with nothing inside. It was like Universal Studios Orlando. Or Hollywood, a diorama.

Here I first noticed the trend of European hotel rooms and apartments that are made only for sleeping, crowded end to end with simple beds. And I began to notice the ubiquity of Ikea furnishings in the hip boutique hotels. After a few days of these, I actually felt a strange yearning for the oppressive regularity and the sterile tans and particle board of the Motel 6 aesthetic of old America.

The people here were shocked to see us in their small town and they showed a wild appreciation and a crazed enthusiasm during our songs. I spoke to some striking looking women who had seen us in San Francisco. White-blue European eye color and full unamerican eyebrows. It's painful to see someone who wants so badly to have a conversation and who manages to overcome their shyness but can't quite grasp the new language enough to ask or say anything very deep to the foreigner. It's painful like watching a fallen ring roll down a gutter or a dollar bill carried off in a gust or watching a handsome stranger you've been eyeing get up and exit the library.

VENICE

Sadly, though it was marked on our calendar as Venice, we were actually in Venizia, the new part of Venice. It is not the old city with it's labyrinth of canals and sinking stinking buildings, but more of an abandoned former city of industry (as far as I could tell). I was full of excitement as I read the freeway signs for Venice and watched the streets eagerly only to see a few scattered and dingy pizzerias as we circled a soot stained industrial zone looking for the "Popcorn Club", a warehouse bar beyond an unlikely gate in a neighborhood where one might legitimately fear being raped by some deranged and forgotten Robocop, one twisted and malfunctioning with age and internal corrosion, wandering lonely and yearning in the wastes. Twice we rudely intruded with our lurid headlights on a positively sprawling camp of Italian hobos who had settled in for the night, squinting and blinking in the sudden brightness, half-roused from a sporty-colored melange of sleeping bags, far far from the field & stream for which they were manufactured.

Evidently, there was some costumed holiday bar crawl happening in old Venice which stole most of our audience that night. The promoters expected quite an event and the flier boasted an festival of international entertainment, but the turnout was disappointing and stiff. It was a nice place and the food was some of the best we had so far. I had a salty salad of speck, rocket, walnut, brie, orange and potatoes. The others had a pizza each, exotic toppings on all.

I've noticed the price of pizza here is much lower than in the US. 6-10 Euros for a whole pie. Also the price of yogurt and cheese is less than half what it is in the US.

In the morning, Ian snuck off into the dawn on a bus to explore the old city before we had to leave at noon. I preferred to sleep, like some kind of jerk.

The drive through the Swiss alps from St Gallen to Venice was one of the most incredible drives I have ever been on. Seemingly endless vistas of green fairy tale mountains unfolded along the highway, little castles here and there. I must recommend it. Although, once you arrive in Italy, the drive becomes quite urban and hideous and the traffic is unparalleled.

ROME

I feel embarrassed admitting that I found it to be true what they say about the fashions and style of Italy. Italy was the first place I was really struck by the beauty of the natives. Or, maybe they weren't so beautiful, but had all very strong distinctive features and put care and effort into their dress. It wasn't so different from San Francisco or Brooklyn I guess. I heard later that there were a lot of Americans there. Indeed, on the streets the next day, I heard hardly a peep of Italian and more American English than anything else.

The bar was on a pedestrian cobblestone street full of nothing but late night clubs. Until after 4am the whole street swarmed and writhed with people. Party people. At one bar, called the 5 Star American Bar, I could see in the upstairs balcony that there was a projection of "Girls Gone Wild" on the wall. It wasn't possible to unload our things from the place for all the shuffling crowds of people so we left overnight and returned in the morning to get it. We had two hotels on opposite ends of the city, which required that we drive through town several times, which turned out to be a blessing. We saw the Vatican and a lot of other ancient stuff. From atop a hill, Rome looks like a city but with huge and ancient stone things protruding here and there out of the canopy of buildings.

At the end of the night, some of our party stayed behind to rage into the morning and there was some uncertainty about when and where everyone would end up. I went to sleep not worrying about it. In the morning, we were all split up without international cellphones. We agreed to meet near the Coliseum at a certain time. We saw the Coliseum and that huge white ornamental building that was built by Mussolini with all the golden statues of people. The vastness and ancientness of the Coliseum inspires nearly instantaneous fantasy visions of centaurs and mammoths and slaves and beggars and warriors. It was good.

The promoter of the show had agreed to meet us in the morning to open the bar so we could take our things out of there. He had apparently been out doing things until 11am, so he was in bed when we called him. And then he was in bed when we called him again a while later. The boulevard that was so bustling eight hours earlier was grey and mute now with the ghosts of celebration, trash blowing around in the corners. My nose started bleeding here. And here I noticed for the first time how large and how numerous are the flies of old Italy. I still can't figure why, but all throughout the country we were menaced by jumbo black flies.

LUCCA

What began as a bummer day of hassling and hustling around rainy Rome ended in the dark and the rain at a joyful place known "The Tube", that lit up the empty neighborhood. It was a bright avenue in a sleepy shopping center and as soon as we arrived we were greeted by friendly dudes and the Tube was bopping with rockfolk. The DJ was already at his station and the fans were tattooed and excited. Big, companion-seeking dogs were here, with their masters. And there were weirdos too, ones from off the street. Little guys watching the football game on TV. So many friendly pals and they had some cool foods for us. The vibes in this place were premium. It was one of the jolliest eves, no doubt. It was so good that I don't know what else to say about it. I didn't see much of the city.

We stayed with a fine lady named Linda who lived in her parents' old apartment above a lamp store, across from a cafe. In the morning we had "Italian Breakfast" which is a croissant, an espresso and a cigarette. I yearned for bacon and eggs. It wasn't the last we would see of Linda or of the others from the Tube. They would show up again at several of the Italian shows.

Carrot soup

There is so much rain in Europe. I forgot about what it's like when it rains all the time. Reminds me of the pacific northwest, my youth. I was expecting a tropical balmy time in Italy and Spain, but the rain has actually gotten worse as we get closer to the mediterranean. Saw pictures of crazy freeway flooding on the news. We drove through a monster puddle that consumed the windshield momentarily. The wildest lightning I ever saw, too.

It rained at our first show too, in Amsterdam. At the end of the show (which was exploding with party people until 4 am), it started raining as we were carrying all of our stuff out to the car. I didn't know this, but apparently Amsterdam is notorious for crumby weather. It never even crossed my mind that it might rain. I kind of forgot about rain. At the end of the night, trying to herd everyone out of the club, our driver/manager, Pete, told us that we were going to leave all the equipment inside the venue and we would walk home. Oh, but we already loaded it all, and now it was raining very hard. So, we can't walk home in the rain, and we can't really carry everything inside again, so that plan was spoiled. He didn't want to drive the car away from the club because the parking situation near his home (a house boat in the Amsterdam canal!) is dire and also because it was late and he drank some. Everyone wet from the rain going back and forth between the van and the club, where Pete was still DJ-ing, each party trying to convince the other that their plan was impractical. Eventually, we concluded that there was no way to do it except to drive the van and park in a parking garage or something. We got home close to 5am, Pete went to park the car and, I discovered in the jet-lagged morning, he had a flat tire and couldn't move the van so he had to sleep in the van in the middle of the street and call up someone to come change the tire as soon as the sun was up. The First show of tour.

BRUSSELS

The next day was Brussels, a very beautiful cobblestoned city with sprawling old churches crusted with age, every sign written in at least three different languages. Some of the friendliest Europeans I've ever encountered on the street. A host peeked out of the  entryway of one of the many many restaurants surrounding the square near the bar and, smiling, inquired in French about the food I was eating while I walked down the street. I think he was genuinely curious. Some kind of African heritage festival was going on in the square, weird French rap echoing out over the long decorative pool and fountains there, squirming down the pedestrian alleyways that sprout from the center, becoming faint and ghostly.

In the night, several of us were mauled by sneaky mosquitoes that had gained entry to our host's apartment, using some kind of foul insectoid magic, no doubt. Shannon woke me before dawn with a wild tale about a single mosquito she had been battling all night. In my half-crazed dream state, I thought it might be just phoey and poppycock, and I made my way to the light switch. Bleary-eyed, I managed to see that walls were COVERED in more mosquitoes than I had ever seen together in one place, lazing about on the walls, digesting everyone's blood through their tiny simple guts. Shannon and I, the only ones awake, executed a seige on their numbers, smearing the walls with our own blood as each bug popped under our palms. In their satiated state, there were drunken and foolish, much easier to kill.

In the morning, our wild host (the owner of the bar where we played), who had been up all night partying in some European fashion and minding his bar, treated us to some very elegant street seafood. Plate after plate of mussels, razor clams, seared tuna and fish stew were brought out to us, and white wine. It was remarkable. We all became drunk in the street. Our host had a nearly perfect American accent and was quite a drunken rascal in the morning. He was very fond of the california accent and the jokes particular to it. He called out thinks to innocent old passers-by, requested high fives from old Belgian men, made fun of everyone there. His friends told us, in painfully, syrupy thick French accents, of the previous night's cocaine and booze binge, all of the things that had transpired while we were sound asleep, dreaming mosquito-fueled dreams.

PARIS

In Paris, a crumby time was had by all. It rained again. The traffic was awful. The neighborhood where we played was crowded and dirty and devoid of charm. The show was moved at the last minute to a new venue, which was the tiny and awkwardly shaped damp old basement of a bar/restaurant. The staff of the restaurant was very annoyed by our presence there. I'm not sure why they rent out the basement if it bothers them so much. Everything and everyone was wet from the rain. This was the first night where we became suspicious that all of the promoters on the tour thought we were vegetarian. Our hosts brought us a meal of a simple diced salad with a mayonnaise type dressing and a quinoa-cucumber-pepper salad and pasta salad. It was neither filling nor substantial. Later I bought some disappointing kebab type dish from a dingy shop across the street to satisfy myself.

The show was hot and claustrophobic. A wet mess. The end of the night dragged on drunkenly as all nine of us passively tried to figure out where each would be sleeping that night, finally standing out in the rain in front of the bar while they tried to close for the evening, gabbing and babbling with the last few wiggley-eyed stragglers. We had to split up into three different locations for sleeping. We left only when the restaurant finally kicked everyone out and closed the gate around 4am. I slept in a nice living room. Some of the boys from Las Ardillas, the other band, went to party with some girls and ended up bouncing around a few bogus "parties" where they were mistreated by rude drunkards, before finally deciding that sleeping in the street or walking all night would be preferrable to that company. They saw the Eiffel tower and a Parisian McDonald's while they waited for morning.

NEUCHATEL

The place was a punk squat in an abandoned restaurant across from a long dead chocolate factory in an industrial section of the idyllic town of Neuchatel, Switzerland. It looks a bit like a Canadian city, clean and green and organized, with a big lake in the center. The party was sparsely attended, but what it lacked in numbers, in made up for in late-night raging weirdness and raw enthusiasm for the simple act of partying. I later heard that nearly all the attendees had eaten LSD that night. They were very annoying. We did have a very nice room upstairs safely away from the acid.

Before we played, the squatters made us a meal of salad and a carrot soup. We were soon hungry again. We resolved to go to a restaurant and I met a guy named Ludo who was a chef and offered to sneak us into his restaurant and cook for us at 11pm. The squatters got wind of this and were very upset and insisted that we stay and eat something else. They cobbled together some dumpstered prosciutto and chicken, which I cooked in the kitchen. A lot of high-flying LSD freaks ate most of the prosciutto while I was cooking, giggling like gnomes.

Down the road from the house, one of the squatters showed me an alcove in the empty chocolate factory where a man had laboriously cleared out decades of obsolete and neglected cacao-stained machinery and built a tiny public gazing pool with benches and a stone garden and strings of lights hung all around. Adjacent was his workshop, full of wood and tools and a motorbike or two.

The morning took a very long time to get started. I was first or second awake and my hunger drove me into the streets to search for food while eveyrone slept. Unfortunately, Switzerland has its own currency, so I couldn't buy anything with my Euros. I starved most of the morning until we were able to wrangle everyone into the van and leave. The host of the party had promised to make us a beautiful Swiss dumpstered breakfast in the morning. This was a lie. We left near 2pm and only one member of the household had risen, and just barely, and only because we woke him up so that he could pay us for the show, which he did, mostly in coins and at least 100 Swiss Francs short of what was agreed upon.

More to come...!

Amsterdam

Between Dusseldorf and Germany I saw many strange and exotic snack foods. One, an "Autogummie" was titled "Total Loss" and featured black semi-truck and car shaped gummies. Another was a kind of beef stick, called "Bifi" and was endorsed by a cartoon stick of meat with an exploding head. I also discovered a corporate lifestyle magazine called "Business Punk". http://www.business-punk.com/

The array of available sex devices displayed openly in the windows of little shops along the boulevards is baffling, wedged in right next to stands selling battered hot dogs and deep fried waffle donuts. Many sizes and materials of dildo, artificial vaginas, some simply an enhanced rubber tube, others with an entire attached torso. Rubber orbs resembling a single disembodied breast can be found lined up on glass shelves in order of size. You can get them in a natural realistic size down to a tennis ball-sized version, maybe to be used discretely under the desk at the office or as a type of stress ball.

Also, in case you didn't know, Amsterdam is the Berkeley of the Old World. Golden, muscular, spliff-smoking extraterrestrial sculptures and giant toadstool nick nacks litter the sales-floors of head shops along the avenues. There is a gas mask with a bong attached to the front and a Rasta hat complete with dread wig attached to the the top.

That's all for now