Billy Swizzle

Swizzle Blog is Morphing

2012-01-18T10:41:00.002-05:00

Come on over to Swizzle Cycleland.

Yo there peeps. As you can see by these most recent posts, the Swizzle blog has morphed from the musings of a wig-wearing drummer in a bad yuppie band into a straight-up cycling blog. And since I'm having more fun writing about the bike and cycling in general, it seems only natural to start a blog dedicated to that. So.... if you like to ride around in circles, and ride up and down hills, and wear tight pants, or like to look at people wearing tight pants or, anything to do with adults riding bikes, groove on over to www.thesolocyclist.blogspot.com. It'll be great to see you.

Swizzle's...ummm.....Cycling Stats?

2012-01-09T17:10:00.000-05:00

Okay, ummm, I'm not sure how I feel about this.

You see, I've happened upon this wiz-bang iPhone ap that records all sorts of "data" while you ride (speed, mileage, and even maps the route on google maps, etc) and then not only posts it on the web, but also compares your "data" with all the other folks who've done the same ride, and used the same, wiz-bang smart phone app. Yes, yes, I know, this is hardly new technology. I'm not breaking news here. But I am breaking a deal I made with myself when I stared riding in earnest about 3 or so years ago.

It was about the time I evolved from a city bike commuter/messenger-type (i.e. stopped working for the man in the city, hence, stopped needing to be a bike commuter/messenger-type who rides a steel fixed gear--also my faithful fixed gear was tragically stolen outside Fenway Park CLICK HERE FOR THE TRAGIC TALE) to more of the tight-pants wearin' "cyclist" that I appear to have morphed into now. As I began to fall in love with the rhythm, long efforts, and the peaceful countryside of "cycling" verses the literal urban aggression (we're talking about massholes here), of bike commuting into Boston, my road bike offered up some "data" to inform my rides that I'd never experienced on the fixie. Nothing too fancy here just simple bike computer (speed, time etc.). It did not upload my ride "data" to my personal website, or map my ride on Google maps, do anything, really, except record my speed and flash that number constantly, incessantly, mercilessly, in my face......

And I found myself watching the cold, soulless, digital, inhuman, LCD......like some kind of electronic gadget-addict almost immedately. When my speed was good...I wanted to go faster....you know, to put some speed in the bank and improve my overall average. But when I was attempting to claw into a headwind, or was just on bad form (because I was still smoking almost a pack a day then), and my speed read 16.9 mph (or 15.9 mph, or yikes 14.9) on a pancake flat road, my suffering was two fold. First, I hated myself for going so slow. Now, I was riding, in large part, to combat an unfortunate predisposition to hate myself (among other mental health benefits I've found "cycling" can deliver), so hating myself while doing something that usually produced the opposite effect, was.......counterproductive to put it mildly.

And then the second half of the double whammy would kick in--to combat my feelings of being a looser for going so slow (Nobody was looking at my cycling computer mind you. These numbers were not being posted to the internet. It was just me, and my tight pants, and my little LCD screen), I'd twist myself inside out to get the numbers to look a little better. I didn't really want to go "faster" per se, and I certainly wasn't racing anybody, I just wanted the little, soulless LCD readout to read 19.0 mph, or at least 18.0 mph--so the "shame" of 14.5 mph would go away. And Since I was still kinda new to the whole "cycling" thing, I turned myself inside out pretty fast. Like the first time I did a 90-miler.

That was the time when the only thing I'd had to eat the night before my first longish ride was 3 hot dogs that we'd picked up at Red's Eats in Wiscassett, Maine. I brought the road bike up to the place in Camden, and I'd thought that 90 mile round trip down to Port Clyde and back would be a piece of cake. I didn't need to "hydrate" or "eat healthy" like those sissy, tight-pants wearing "cyclists" I'd seen on teevee, thought I! I'd be good with my Red's Eats hot dogs and a couple of powerbars, my old-school endurance attitude. Just like those crazy old bastards on the old Tour de France posters. You know, those dudes who'd ride 200 miles on 50 pound bikes wearing wingtips, wool "knickers" and sporting handle bar mustaches---yep, that's me, old-school, so I thought.

It was all going pretty good until about the last 15 miles. You see, I'd been watching the damn LCD instead of the fantastic, salty, magical, lobster-strewn Maine countryside, and turned myself inside out to keep my speed up (nobody, I mean nobody cared how fast I was going), until those last 15 miles and then----- BONK....nothing. There was just nothing there. Nothing. I had 15 miles to go and I barely had enough energy to sit on the bike. BONK. It's really a perfect word. It sounds exactly like what happens when you try to ride 90 miles over rolling hills with 3 Red's Eats hot dogs in your belly..... onomatopoeia.......Somehow, I was able to keep the bike moving, but just barely. And in that crazed, energy starved, weirdly painful and trippy state, I was just barely able to turn over the smallest gear, and slowly, ever so slowly, make my way back home. And I watched the LCD screen (and judged myself) even then!

Thankfully, Caroline put me right to bed when I finally wobbled in. And I even have vague memories of listening to the Red Sox on an old transistor radio in bed and thinking to myself.........I'm an idiot. This happened for two reasons:
1. You gotta eat more than 3 Red's Eats hot dogs before a longish, hilly bike ride in Maine and much more importantly.......
2. This never would have happened if I'd just allowed myself to go at a more manageable pace once I started to feel wobbly. But I'll never be able to do that with the speed mocking me from the LCD screen.

So, not shortly after that, I simply cut that damn bike computer off my handlebars, and I've been happy, ever since.........until this new-fangled iPhone app darkened my door.

So there we are. I've not only recorded some bike "data" but I'm also sharing it with my peeps. And I still really don't know how I feel about it. What do you think? Am I being crazy? A hopeless romantic? Or maybe I'm just deluding myself and think I'm faster than I am because I don't actually record my speed. You know those days when you just "feel fast"? Everyday can be like that if you don't pay attention to the actual speed...wink wink.

My original justification is that I'd like to get a basic baseline of what kind of speeds I do on my favorite rides on my current bike so I can maybe quantify the benefits/performance increase (and justify) the new bike. Or maybe I'm just deluding myself. I'd really like to hear from you other "cyclists" out there. Tell me what you think. Or better yet, come to Belmont and ride with me. We'll leave the computers at home and just ride for the helluv it. It'll be fun.

Swizzles Help Nab Perp--In The Act Of Perping--Sort Of

2011-12-20T20:15:00.001-05:00

Yes, yes, you read that right. We were a-woken in the wee hours last night to the sounds of crazy screeching tires and other sounds going bump in the night outside our snug little abode. And as an added bonus, our very own mystery police reporter lived to tell the tale...........
"Last night we had an incident on Ridge Rd. involving the Belmont and Watertown Police, and Watertown Fire Department. Around 12:30 (EST) we were awoken by a car traveling at speed making a high pitched noise travelling up Belmont St. The car eventually turned into Ridge Rd. and erratically came down the street coming to a stop by Chad and Eileens. A man exited the car, grabbed things from his trunk and ran into our driveway. At this point, Bill ran downstairs, turned on our outdoor lights, and shouted at the man. And I called the Police who were already in the neighborhood and looking for this guy. He ran N.East up the street and was caught. He had dropped "evidence" the contents of his trunk next to my car-including a Watertown fire department jacket. Suffice to say and you may have noticed, but we had multiple Watertown and Belmont police cars and officers investigating the scene. The Watertown fire department showed up at one point to ID the jacket and finally the car was towed. One officer was overheard saying, after they'd picked the guy up, "This guy is a one man crime wave." That seemed funny and oh so appropriate. We are not sure of any additional details about the situation except for what we saw and all was quiet again by 2AM or so. It was likely a coincidence that he wound up on our road, but nevertheless it was frightening and a reminder that looking out for one another is a wonderful part of our community that can help us all to feel safe. So thank you! Happy holidays and best wishes for the new year."

I couldn't agree with our police reporter any more. I just wish I'd taken some pictures. The collection of public servants in the wee hours in our driveway was truly comical and inspirational.

Two wheeled soul

2011-12-17T17:55:00.003-05:00

I'm on my way my friends. On my way to the next level. The fourth dimension, if you will. Yes, yes, I'm on my way to getting even more joy, and peace, and dare-I-say "enlightenment" out of something that I already get a lot of good stuff from. Sure I could continue to ride my current bike that has been so faithful and carried me through some significant events in my life for another 6 years, but the truth is, it really doesn't fit me too well, and after riding about 70 miles after my man Husam significantly modified my current bike to reflect my optimum fit, I finally see what he's talking about.

"The joy of riding a high-end bike is worth every penny" he says matter-of-factly. "Bill, life is too short to skimp on the important things," he says. "Isn't it? Why wouldn't you want a custom bike that has been set up specifically for you that will make your soul happy?" he wonders aloud. "What are you waiting for?"

Yep. This is it. It'll have different wheels, and I'm gonna wait until the spring, but I love the idea of trading in the trusty Subaru forester of a bike for a Ferrari of a bike. Sure, I'm still going to be providing the power, but won't it be fun to have the power end up feeling more powerful, and joyous, and healing, and soulful?

Well. I'm waiting for my mind to catch up with reality. You see, I've always been way too cheap to justify spending anything above the bare minimum for any of the stuff I've been involved with. I've always bought used skis and used cars and tried to make do with stuff from the want ads (way before craigslist), and most times that's all I ever thought I needed or was really entitled to. But I'm finally realizing, bikes are different. Why would I want to skimp on something that give me so much joy, and could honestly increase the comfort, the speed, the joy I get from pushing myself--sweating, freezing, breathing, aching-- out in nature on the bike everyday. Hasam has fitted me like the pros get fitted, and it's changing my world. Who knew transformation could be so easy and so profound?

That's the real question, isn't it? Transformation? Is it ever easy? I know for myself, without going into too many of the details, that 2011 has been the year of transformation, and while there have been moments sublime, I've also had more than my fair share of terror. Abject, seemingly bottomless, terror. But maybe that's how it goes. The terror comes from the old self dieing so the new, deeper self can live. Now don't worry. I'm not going to start chanting or grow a pony-tail, but I know that's exactly what's happening. I/we are transforming. And the relief and the freedom I've felt on the bike has been a big part of the action, a big positive part of my life. Like it always has.

Swizzle Laser Light Show

2011-12-07T17:32:00.005-05:00

No, no, I'm not talking about going to some planetarium in the late 80's and checking out the Pink Floyd Laser Light Experience, man...........it's much more propeller head than that.

Well, if you haven't heard, I'm kinda like way into riding the bike these days, and while we've all been enjoying this strange, ultra-warm New England Fall, I know the warm days are numbered. Now, it'd be no biggie if I was able to put the bike away until next spring, but, I just can't do that anymore. I can't stop riding, and I don't want to stop riding, and I really do love riding, HOWEVER, no matter what I do, or shoes, or socks or whatever I try, my feet turn into blocks of ice when the temp goes below 40 degrees.

Soooooooo. In my quest for warm feet, I returned to my man Hussam. He sold me my trusty Giant bike six years ago, and he's renowned for being the best-dam-bike-fitter around. And what the heck, with the amount of time and energy I spend on the bike (I'm guessing my trusty Ginat has about 12,000 miles on her), and the amount of money it saves on therapy, kicking out a couple of bucks to get a Gucci, laser light, propeller-head, data crunching fitting is worth it.

Who knows, I may be even realizing that I'm worth it in a healthy, taking-care-of yourself kind of way? Regardless, I spent 3 hours with my man Hussam today, and hmmmm.....he got me a totally pain-free set up on his cool custom-fitting machine, but, ummm....I may need a New Bike (pictured above) to actually replicate the sweet fitting awesomness on the road.......Hmmmmmm. I knew going into today that Hussam is an expert salesman, as well as the owner of this very cool, customer-oriented boutique bike shop in Concord, but I have to agree, he has a point.

Oooooohhhhhhh. Carbon............ Fast.........

He talked about soul. He talked about joy. He talked about not changing the oil in a Ferrari. He talked about crunching the numbers: How much time do you spend on the bike? How much money is pure, unadulterated joy worth? How would it feel to go faster with much less effort, and better still, go much, much faster with your current effort? "The speed increase will lead to you spending even more time on the bike," he says. "Your 36-miler will become 56 overnight," he muses. "You're a natural talent and gifted with a long femur," he exclaims. "Why drive a beat up camry when you can drive a Ferrari?" and just smiles. That's what a closer does........smiles.

Does a bike have Soul????????????

He was almost like a drug dealer waving a big bag of drugs in front of a person, who, shall we say, has a bit of a sweet tooth for that kind of stuff. He was like the candyman. A magic candy salesman..................

But, man, I can't argue with his data collection, and his customer service, and his bedside manner. First rate. Absolutely first rate. And he's right. I'm not sure if I'm ready for a new bike yet, but he is right about all those things. And it would be fun to ride without having two club feet at mile 2.

Swizzle Breaks Two Ribs

2011-11-30T13:18:00.005-05:00

No wonder I can't "breathe too good."

As you can see from the X-Ray above, I seem to have broken a couple of ribs (#s 6 and 7. The headphone jack points to the fractures). Given my feelings of "Not breathing too good"since my latest crash, this is not a news flash or anything, but it is good to have confirmation of some kind of injury, and maybe even more importantly, it's good to do the grown-up thing and go to the Dr. when Mrs. Swizzle says I should. It's really pretty sweet. She loves me, and worries about me, and wants to make sure that I'm okay.
How cool is that? Pretty cool. I feel the same way about her.

Nothing like a heaping helping of buttery babka from Dean and Deluca to prepare for getting back on the horse again.

So, now that we know why I have such a stabbing pain when I sneeze, and laugh, and breathe, and now that the Dr. has signed off on me getting out on the bike again, I'm heading back out on the bike again. Truth: I got back on the bike before the Dr. said it was okay. However, it was kinda weird not riding for a 6 days in a row while we were down visiting Caroline's Mom in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains last week.

Check that. It actually it was pretty cool. I like the idea of loving the bike, but not needing to ride like a maniac just to stay sane. I'd like to think I'm enjoying some sanity that's not 30-miles-a-day-on-the-bike-dependant.

And we laughed and laughed. And the more I laughed, the more my ribs hurt. And the more I said "Don't make me laugh," the more we all seemed to laugh. Meanwhile, Mrs. Swizzle has all her ribs intact, but she has been suffering from some nausea lately, and Caroline's Mom is sorta like the bionic lady with two new hips and a couple of fresh spinal fusions and other stuff in play. What a trio we made. And what a great, restful Thanksgiving week.

That said, it's still fantastic to fuel up on buttery babka and then head out for a quick 24-miles on this sunny, windy, early December day.

Swizzle Crashes......Again

2011-11-28T17:31:00.011-05:00

Ouch.....A new boo boo on my hip--very sensitive.

Okay, Okay. Umm. Yea. So, you may have heard, I crashed the bike not too long ago. No big deal. It happens to all of us. Nope. It wasn't anyones fault. Nope, there was no greater meaning in it. Nope there were no "Now it all makes sense" epiphanies, no Oprah-esque "Ah-haaaas." I was just lost in thought, my hands slipped off the ol' handlebars, and I went down. Road rash on the usual body parts and my pride may have been bruised a bit, but otherwise, none-the-worse-for-wear.

A new boo boo over the week-old boo boo.

But then, about a week later. I crashed again. Same deal. Nobodies fault. Nobody even around. Sunny. Warm. Looking forward to good stuff on the horizon and then WHAM. Down. Hard. But this time, it wasn't even a mystery pebble in the road causing the crash. One minute, I'm settling into some cherished miles through the pastoral New England countryside, the next, I'm out of control like some frizzy-dizzy person on a bike. I literally rode smack-dab into the curb on the side of the road. Bang. Front wheel hits the curb, forward progress of the bike stops while the forward progress of the rider is instantly converted into---"Falling force?" "Flailing force?" "Crashing speed"?--- I wonder what the physics propeller heads would call it? Ahhhh, it doesn't matter.

For no apparent reason, on a sunny, warm day in late November, one week after I crashed for no apparent reason, I crashed again, for no apparent reason. I was just as surprised as I was the week before. "What's happening?" I thought to myself as I felt the jarring impact of my front wheel hitting the curb at speed. "Are you kidding me?" I thought. Now, who I thought could have been kidding me remains to be seen. But I was going a good bit faster than I was prior to my previous crash, so the time I had to think deep thoughts to myself prior to making impact with the tarmac was shorter, but, since my velocity was greater, I had lots more time to think deep thoughts after I made contact with the tarmac and before abrasive slide across the road came to a stop.

My deep thoughts included: "Wow, my helmet is pushing all these leaves into a big pile as I slide down this sidewalk." and "I'm not sure I can breathe too good right now." (I guess my mid-crash thoughts do not worry about grammar and correct usage), and "Why is there a curb right there?" The slide was long enough to also allow for such musing as: "I can't believe this is happening again." and "Arrrrrrgggggggg." as well.

Nobody saw this one. There were no cars on the road. No old ladies on the front porch. No "cyclists" (air-quotes). No preppies driving Mercedes station wagons with "Dartmouth College" window stickers on the back window. Just me and the leaves that I'd just piled up with my head by the side of the road in Lincoln. And this one hurt just a little bit more than the last one. The clothes covering all the usual places--hand, elbow, knee, foot--had fresh rips, and the flesh did too. But unlike the previous crash, I'd hit my head on this one, and had the cracked helmet to show for it.

Good thing I've been wearing my helmet since my days of crashing and bike commuting in Boston. And I had a decision to make. The week before, I'd crashed at the literal apex of my 36-miler so there were no decisions to make. I simply had to ride the remaining 18-miles to make my way home. But this crash happened at the beginning of my ride. I was only about 5 miles from home at this point. Should I gather my facilities and just limp home from here or should I solider on?

I did all the stuff you do when you collect yourself after a crash, and then I kept going. I knew I'd need to get a new helmet. I knew I had some fresh road rash. But nothing felt too bad and I knew I had to keep going. Not for some tough-guy reason, I just needed to keep going. And I did.

And I felt the same way about this crash as I did about the one a week prior, but the second crash in a week was a wake-up call. There is a lesson here. And I'm amazed that after all these years of "recovery" and "healing" and "blah, blah, blah," maybe one of the most important lessons that I've needed to learn has come about because I wear tight pants and crash my bike for seemingly no reason at all. I think I finally get it. Finally. Maybe. And it's not new. And it's not an original idea. And people have been telling me for years. And sages have been preaching if through the ages. It's so simple.

Be In The Moment. We all gotta be in the moment.

Now, I've been using the bike to work through some pretty heavy stuff these last months. And I'm so glad I've had it. But I've always had it. I've literally been riding a bike since I was 6 years old, and I never stopped. All the yelling, and screaming, and feeling, and crying on the bike has been such a gift and I know all that stuff has been way necessary, but maybe all that stuff really comes down to Being in the Moment. Really being in the moment. Not 5 minuets in the future, or 25 years in the past but Right. In. The. Right. NOW. I think I just need to ride the bike when I ride the bike. Be in the moment on the bike. If I was paying attention to what was going on on the bike, rather than to what was going on in my delusional, magical, making-something-out-of-thin-air mind, I may not crash as much, and who knows, maybe even glimpse the divine that's happening all around us. All the time. Maybe.

Right at this moment, as I type these words on my 6-year-old laptop, and my scabby arms are cooled by the honed black granite counter top in our wonderfully lived-in kitchen, and the sun sets red through the trees to the west, and my beautiful wife laughs upstairs, everything is perfect. And I've missed those simple awarnesses and gratitudes so long. I feel like I'm waking up out of a very long and hazy dream. I feel....like I'm waking up.

Or maybe I just hit my head a little too hard. And, ummm, oh yea, it really hurts when I breath, or laugh, and oh man, sneezing delivers a spike of pain that I've never really felt before. I do believe I did do something to my ribs. "I can't breathe too good."

But I can see.

Swizzle Crashes Through Some Weird Barrier, Or Not

2011-11-23T19:22:00.001-05:00

Has it really been since June since my last post, really? Man that seems like a lifetime ago. And come to think of it, it may just be. Lots has gone down since our blissful June in Maine was rocked by chain saws, and scary news, and just pain. But hey, pain is a part of life. Everybody feels it. Nobody is immune. Money. Fame. Good looks. Even good works don't insulate any of us from the pain of being alive.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining, and I'm cool with pain being part of life, sorta. At least I'm learning to be cool with it and accept it and at times even welcome it. It's just the fact. I'd done a pretty good job of staying one step ahead of a bunch of pain that'd been chasing me for a while (and that I thought I'd "dealt with"--readers note--I included the quotes here but what I was really trying to convey was the fact that I was actually making "air quotes" with my fingers), but it finally caught up with me. Actually, the pain from running from/trying to avoid/deny the pain was probably more painful than the pain itself. Same goes for my thoughts (more "air quotes") about the pain. Crazy, I know, but what can I say.

And for all the misery I've been feeling lately, the bike has always provided a respite. I've cried on the bike. And literally yelled at my demons at the top of my lungs on the bike. And pondered and raged and ran away on my bike. But for all the miles I've logged this season (I'm estimating about 6,400 or so --200 miles a week/800 miles a month--since late Feb) I'd only crashed once (and that was when the snow was still pretty deep on the side of the road) until last week.

Swizzle got a boo boo.

The crazy thing was that there was no outward reason for the crash. No, a squirrel did not run out and get caught in my spokes. And no, I wasn't run off the road by beer swillin' dudes in a pickup truck with a gun rack. And no it wasn't a fellow tight-pants-wearing "cyclist" (air quotes) who made me crash because I tried to punch him in the face after he pulled in front of me, and then started giving me the finger, and jamming his brakes, because I was making him do all the work, because I didn't like the way he jumped in front of me at a stop sign, and I wanted to teach him a lesson by sitting on his wheel and make sure he heard my rear cassette go click-click-click as I coasted while he tried to ride me off, but.....maybe that's a story for another day.

And um, no, I wasn't distracted by some preppie boarding school teacher who was spending her lunch break collecting sprigs of holly for her class to make holiday centerpieces with.

I was just riding down a road that I've literally ridden down hundreds of times before. I'd just been given some wonderful news. I was setting a good, not blistering, but good, respectable pace. I was at the apex of the outbound part of my well-worn ride and heading for home. Kinda giddy from getting a little slice of good news after what seemed to be a waterfall of failure, and pain, and isolation, but still a bit leery of the idea that maybe things were going to take a turn for the better.

And then......my front wheel seemed to hit a rock, um actually a pebble. My hands slipped awkwardly off the handle bars--the same handle bars they'd spent holding on to, uneventfully for 6,375 miles in the previous 7 months--in slow motion. My body weight started leaning over to the right, and then gravity just took over. It seemed like slow motion, but it all happened pretty fast. And I went down, hard. Right shoulder, right hand, right hip, right knee, and right foot. Down. Hard. Sliding to a stop in the middle of the road. My tightish, cool guy bike jacket was all askew and ripped. The sleeve of my right arm was all spun around like the jacket had stopped when I hit the pavement, but my hand, elbow, and shoulder kept moving, and grinding along the asphalt, resulting in a sleeve that was askew and ripped. Needless to say, the flesh, mostly on my elbow (pictured above) was ripped too. Same goes for the knee. Ripped cool-guy tights--ripped outside of the knee. And yes, the hand as well. And oh yea, I seemed to have wrenched my left thumb somehow. It was throbbing and swollen in my glove. I could feel it.

So when my skid along the pavement finally came to a halt, I just layed there, in the middle of the road. I was embarrassed as I aways get after a crash (weather people see me crash or not. In this case nobody saw me crash but some construction workers did see the aftermath), but I think I might have also been, I don't really know how to describe it, relieved. What is that all about? I really don't know.

Was a relieved that I was finally experiencing physical pain instead of the much harder to bear emotional pain? Really? Is that possible? Am I that crazy? Or did I think that I was having some sense knocked into me (or out of me) by some mystical force for good? Or was a relieved that I'd finally reached the bottom because I couldn't get any lower? Was it the literal hand of Mara and his army of giant elephants knocking me off my bike? Hmmmmmmm.

Who knows? All I know is I got up, slowly. The construction dudes that were just getting off the job and saw me sprawled out in the road kindly offered to "call somebody" for me (I could tell that they really had no idea what they were witnessing. They were in shock. Maybe even more in shock, or more uncomfortable than I was) but....nope, I didn't need that. I spun my tight clothes around so they weren't all askew, took a long pull from my water bottle, said "Argh.....and oooogh.......and ohhhhh mannn...."and tried to shake off the sting of the crash so I could get going again. And then I got going again. My thumb hurt more than anything else. I babied it, but not too much. There were 18 miles to go. And you know what? There doesn't seem to be any more significant "meaning" to that crash except....it made for some good scab cam posts. Or that I may in fact be turning a pretty big corner.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody. I know I've got lots to be thankful for, and I hope you know you do too.

Stone Sculpture

2011-06-18T14:51:00.001-04:00

I started building stone sculptures on a large rock that gets fully submerged at high tide off the house in Camden because my new friend, and as you can see from the photo above, highly skilled inspirational photographer, Arthur Durand (checkout his work artdurandphoto.com) was building some. It looked like fun and it was.

Is this sculpture a self portrait? Does it matter?

Art had been experiencing and photographing the land up there for several weeks (he's on a road trip from his home in California and living in his camper that's mounted on the bed of his Toyota pickup next to the water's edge) before we arrived, and we clicked immediately. Here's Art shooting some high tide photos of my first, and most long-lived sculpture.

And while he was building his sculptures on the beach, the large rock off the dining room seemed to be the place to build mine (pay no attention to the cute fur balls in the photo).

I had no idea, however, when I started stacking big stones on top of the bigger rock at low tide, how much the whole exercise would move me. The act of picking the stones and then placing them on top of each other was a wonderfully peaceful and unintellectual activity. All I did was grab some rocks that looked like they may fit together, and start stacking them. And it soon became apparent that they way the rocks looked was the least accurate indicator of how well they would fit together. It was all feel.

This does not look like something that could withstand the tide rising up to the bottom of the top stone?

Check out the gaps. I love that the whole statue can take a literal beating, and continue to stand inspite of the fact that it's perched on these tiny contact points and could be pushed over with on finger. There's some kinda lesson/metaphor there.

I love the barnacles as well. And the rocks just "chunked" into place when I was building it.

It stayed up for several days because we had some unusually calm days and the high tides weren't as high as they can be. But the tide did come up to the base of the top stone.

Eventually, I set up another stone high and dry on the sea wall next to the house. Maybe I'm a Druid. Or maybe I just like seeing these statues and being reminded of the importance of standing tall and withstanding the rising tide, while also being vulnerable enough to be knocked over with one finger, and then starting all over again.

Zen of Maine

2011-06-14T16:54:00.001-04:00

Trying to capture the beauty and peacefulness in a little corner of coastal Maine in this psuedo-french, dialogue-less video was fun, but, I see that I need to either: 1. abstain from jitters-inducing coffee drinking before shooting video footage with the iPhone or 2. use a camera that has an image stabilizer for stuff like this. I think since I've already given up booze, drugs, cigarettes, and I'm even cutting down on sugary PowerBars, finding a camera with an image stabilizer sounds more palatable than giving up my last true love--coffee. Capice?

A 30 mile bike ride a day is good for the soul

2011-06-09T19:42:00.005-04:00

So, like, most of you know, the Swizz is a rider of bikes. And I have fond memories of some early blog posts that illustrated the sheer frogger-like quality of commuting through the mean streets of Cambridge on my trusty Bianchi single speed. Play the following vid and take a ride down memory lane with me as I narrated my daily commute through the traffic, and to groove with one of the better soundtracks you'll hear anywhere.

A whole lot has changed since then--I'm not working in Boston, or doing the spirit-crushing drive to the other job I had in Newport--but some things have stayed the same. Like how awesome it is, and frankly, how essential it is for my mental health, to get the blood pumping, the sweat flowing, and the wheels going round and round on a bike. I still have a single speed but it seems a bit silly to have a bike with only one gear compared to the sheer love I feel for my silky-smooth, fully geared road bike, and my trusty, daily, 20-to-40 miles loops.

There's going to be plenty of 100-milers as the summer unfolds, but I'm here to sing the praises of the 30 miles of hilly, pine-scented goodness surrounding Camden, Maine. The truth is, each ride seems to be part meditation, part escape, part childish joy that I had fleeting glimpses of when I was young, and part abject terror that comes from standing naked in front of my life......

Like when I found myself crying on the bike a few weeks ago. Real, deep, uncontrollable, face contorting, tear producing, crying on the bike. It must have been quite a sight. Here I was with the tight pants, and the short socks, the silly fingerless gloves, and the super fast sunglasses, just crying like a baby...Vulnerable. Defenseless. Honest. Human. And yes, a bit goofy. It had been a couple decades. I guess I just couldn't hold the pain in any more. And there seems to be some freedom on the other side of these uncontrollable outbursts.

Andrew Wyeth Art Pilgrimage in Maine

2011-06-04T19:00:00.000-04:00

Maybe I should name my bike Christina.

We've been up here in Maine all week and the mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual fireworks have been quite scary and dazzling at the same time. But I'll let the photos and video of a 45 mile round trip bike ride from Camden to Cushing, Maine tell the tale. I was moved to point the bike to Cushing because that's where one of the quintessentially American painters--Andrew Wyeth--painted many of his quintessentially American paintings including "Christina's World."

This painting and literally being in "Christina's World" moved me.

It's one thing to read about something--and Wyeth's biography titled "A Secret Life" is fascinating--but nothing compares to actually soaking in something by being there.

There's always the risk of disappointment when you go to a place (that effectively removes part of it from your imagination), but the trip to the Olson House in Cushing was utterly uplifting.

The house just breaths. Here's a second floor window that Wyeth painted (next photo).

I had a wonderful private tour with a nice grey haired lady, and the added bonus of learning that the girl who works the cash register there, didn't want to go into the house by herself. She told me being in there gave her the willies.

Am I the only one that thinks this is cool?

Love it. I didn't get the willies. I had goose bumps. Here's the second floor bedroom where Wyeth painted Christina's World.

Wyeth's simple room to paint.

It's been decades since Wyeth painted there, and since Christina and her brother Alvero lived there, but Al's small second floor bedroom where Wyeth painted still vibrates with creative mojo.

The front door.

Being there is the bomb.

The watercolor of the front door.

Here's just a bit more musing on art and perspective.

As you can see when you compare the images, here's the exact spot where Wyeth placed Christina. The trees have grown since.

Non-offshore-passage dependent smoking cessation program

2011-05-19T09:02:00.002-04:00

So, I've tried to stop smoking in the past, but it never really worked. My last attempt involved a 700 mile offshore sailing passage, and I figured If I just headed offshore without any smokes on board, I'd just quit because I'd have to... There aren't any convenience stores in the gulf stream that we could pull over into so I could buy a ten dollar pack of reds. Anyway, That didn't really work so well as I made a mad dash for a ten dollar pack of reds in Bermuda only seconds before pulling away from the fuel dock so...you know how that goes.

Well this time seems to be a different. It's been three weeks without a cigg and while the cravings still come on like a freight train, the days keep piling up. The bike riding and the pound of oreos per day are helping and so is some pretty regular acupuncture. My man Matt is hooking me up with the needles that seem to help me release all the stuff that drove me to drink, smoke, do drugs, and engage in all kinds of curiously enticing, self-destructive behavior. The thing that has me shaking my head is the better I feel as I detox from the constant smoke in my lungs that usually started around 7 am, the more I want to smoke. But the cool thing is I don't have to smoke even if I really, really, really want to.

Swizzle crashes bike, cramps up and lays naked on kitchen floor, and hasn't smoked in 3 weeks

2011-05-17T16:35:00.005-04:00

The title pretty much sums it up. And this vid goes out specifically to all those Doctors-to-be who will be bike commuting in the Berkshires, and to all those computer network gurus who have mad skills and want to ride bikes.

Swizzle Kicked out of the band but continues to live like a Rock Star

2010-07-28T08:18:00.000-04:00

Yep, that's right. The Swizz received an email about a month ago that essentially said, "You travel alot, so we've decided to ask another guy to be our drummer."

I guess a phone call would have been too much effort, and I haven't heard a peep out of the guys since. Isn't that just awesome?

The life of an out of work Rock Star can be good.

Well, I'll say it is. Because that frees up even more time to "travel alot" and live like a rock star. And as I'm finding out down here in Edgartown on Martha's Vineyard, it's actually more fun to live like a rock star, than it is to be one.

Lady Swizzle and I have been sampling all the bounty this getaway for the entertainment industry can serve up. We've ridden the beach cruisers out to the secluded jewel of East Beach on Chappaquiddick, and driven the ultimate preppie mobile (our borrowed 1991 Volvo 240 wagon compete with "Ohio Weslean" and "Kappa Kappa Gama" window stickers on the back window) through the rugged hills of Aquinnah, out to Moshup Beach.

Carly Simon in Menemsha.

We've got tans like you'll see on the next season of "Jersey Shore" and smiles as wide as Carly Simon's. We confirmed this fact yesterday when Carly pulled up in her white, hybrid, Lexus SUV, to the Homeport Resturant in Mememsha last night with her little poodle on her lap. Now I think it's safe to say that it doesn't really get more Martha's Vineyard that that, and it was kinda cool even though I'm more of a Joni Mitchell guy myself. I even shot this quick photo. It could have been better but I just didn't want to bother her, she was just minding her own business picking up the greasy take out that the port serves up.

Anyhoo, that's all to now. We've got another day of sunny, dry, and 85, so the rockstar living should continue to rock.

Kiss Kiss
Swizzle

The Tempest

2010-06-07T22:46:00.000-04:00

The Swizzle-Smoking-Cessation program hit some funky bumps in the road today. Check that. Not bumps in the road, bumps in the mind. The cool, sunny morning had all all the promise of a cool sunny morning. Out of office assistant, check. Shower, done. Town car ride to the airport with my man, Arman, word. Passport and one way ticket to Bermuda in-the-pocket. How cool, and sunny is that?

Then it all went a little pear-shaped, as the Brits say. I was, after after all, going to sail with some Brits. Why am I always sailing with Brits? Perhaps a story for another day. So, I finally make it through security. The full, $8.50 pack of Marlboro Reds was ceremoniously left on the lip of a trash can outside terminal C, and I was headed back to sea. Back to the scene of the beginning of the end of my drinking, actually. You see, back in 1993, I'd been sober for almost 2 years (1 year and 11.5 months actually, but who's counting? I was actually), when I first sailed aboard the Swan 615 Monsoon Jaguar from Newport, down to Bermuda, and then on to Antigua. It was Fall. Hurricane season had just officially ended and the cold, New England fall air stayed cold until we crossed the warm water of the Gulf Stream. Dolphins jumped off the tops of the 12-foot swells, and I was at sea. Off on the adventure I knew was the key to all the happiness I was searching for. And then we stopped in Bermuda. And Sally, the pixie-like cook from New Zealand and I rented a scooter: one must always rent a scooter when one is attempting to woo a kiwi-pixie-cook in Bermuda.

But Sally was having none of it. Sure, she called me "Lovie" (she called everybody "Lovie") and shared night watches together, but she was not buying what I was selling. No sale, so to speak. So I had a brilliant idea "She's not down with my jive because she must think I'm a bit of a dandy since I don't drink?" I thought to myself. "Well I can fix that. I know how to drink. I'll just show her I can throw a couple back like a heavily tattooed, full-on, tough-guy sailor." Brilliant. It all went down in St. Georges, curiously, the location of the boat that's waiting for me, and my destination on this cool, sunny morning.

At least I thought that was the destination for today. Turns out the weather report was for a sporty 40-60 knot weather system, right in our northerly path, and the boat's departure day was moved back to Thursday, Wednesday at the earliest. So I had a decision to make: Continue on with the boat-based, Swizzle-Smoking-Cessation program on an anchored boat that wasn't going nowhare until Thursday, Wednesday at the earliest, or head home, and do it all over again tomorrow.

I headed home, but not before I checked the trash can to see if my full pack of Reds were still on their ceremonial perch on the trash can. I saw the garbage truck before I say the trash can. No doubt the trash man had just deposited the Reds in the back. I'll be back at he airport tomorrow.

But first! A 30-mile bike ride through the colonial countryside. What better way to celebrate smoking-cessation than to put the hammer down and maybe reap some kind of benefit from not taking long, hard pulls from packs of nails that put ammonia and cyanide into my lungs.

The cravings, the bumps in my mind, started almost as soon as I got out of the shower. Maybe even before? So, there I am, just hanging out in the spandex, gay-astronaut get-up that bike clothes are, the sweat and salt hasn't even dried yet and you got it, my mind sends the "wouldn't a cigarette just be the perfect capper to this 30 mile spin?" impulses. Yea, I know, awesome.

And that was only beginning. Take 2: I'm off to Bermuda tomorrow.

Back to the Swizzle Saga...To be continued 12

2010-06-05T12:40:00.000-04:00

Swizzle Sidebar--Hey Folks. I sure have missed my man Swizzle. But he's back and strange and wonderful events are afoot in Swizzleland. If you're just tuning in, the Swizzle Saga has reached the 14,000 word mark, and we're just getting started. Click here if you want to start from the beginning.
I'm also (as opposed to the Swizz) gearing up for an attempt to stop smoking Marlboro Reds after only 24 years. I started back in 1986 because I though it would help me get rid of the "preppie boy next door" image I thought I had. In fact, I did look like the mildly stoned, preppie boy next door, and thought smoking would make look tough. Brilliant.
Anyhoo, I leave for Bermuda on Monday and will be sailing up to Newport on Tuesday. The plan is to not bring any cigarettes on the 650 mile offshore passage with the hopes of jump starting my cold turkey quiting. Could be very interesting. Watch this space and Facebook for updates.
Also, the clock is ticking as Swizzle needs to be back for a kinda televised MARS gig at the Belmont Community TV studios on Friday night. It's gonna be close. Sounds a little bit like a movie that's playing in theaters near you. Stay tuned. In the meantime, here's the next installment of the To be Continueds.

So……

Everyone turned to Wayne. He slowly put his arm down, “Ummm, battery’s no good,” he said. Gene’s eyes narrowed and the boys really didn’t know what to make of Wayne’s little comment.

Turns out, it’s no big deal that ol’ Wayne here had something to say. His bad teeth, bad skin and filthy clothes make him look like dim-witted scumbag , but in reality, ol Wayne is not only smart, he’s actually kinda…..sweet. Gene had told him to keep quiet about the bad battery, but he didn’t want those boys to drive off not knowing that they might not be able to start the car again if they turned it off.

“Wa da ya mean,” asked Angel.

“Battery’s totally dead,” said Wayne. “Had to jump it to get it going.”

“Well, this changes things a bit, doesn’t it Gene?” said Ebony.

“I guess,” said Gene glaring at Wayne.

“We’ll give you $200,” said the master negotiator.

Wayne just smiled his brown, broken tooth smile.

“Deal,” was all Gene could say.

So that was that. The day that started in the wee hours by flying in a VW Dasher over a dry river bed in the Utah desert, had progressed to the point where these California-bound college boys were driving a hard bargain with a psudo-sherrif cowboy of a two trailer town for a 1980 Chevy Monza that they couldn’t turn off. Exactly 20 hours had passed since the Swizz had been hijacked by Angel and Ebony; they’ve been busy. But at least now they’ll be able to get themselves, and all their crap, back to Boulder.

“Let’s pack up and get outta here,” said Ebony.

“Yea,” said the Swizz. “If jerk-face here can stay awake and avoid jumping any more ravines, we’ll be back on the porch eating cheese dogs sometime tonight.”

The four of them were standing in a circle. The car doors were open and the road-warrior-rigged engine they couldn’t urn off was just chugging along. The sun was pretty high in the sky now. It was hot, but it was a “dry heat.” Ebony was thinking: “There’s no way we’re gonna fit all this stuff in this stupid little white car.” The Swizz was just happy they were going home, and that Gene had finally left them alone and gone back to actively holding Eunice and her smushed-up cleavage hostage. The sad thing was, he wasn’t really thinking about Eunice or even her intoxicatingly jiggly cleavage. All he wanted to do was smoke some of Ebony’s weed once they got back on the road. They couldn’t do that with the heavily belt-buckled sheriff in their midst. He really needed some deep pulls from that pocket-sized deer antler pipe, and he knew once they got back into road-mode, the pipe would be passed. That’s all he really cared about.

“Uh, boys,” said Angel in his somewhat high-pitched, California accent. “We’re almost halfway there. I say we keep going.” In retrospect, it’s obvious that as soon as they realized they were gonna buy the Monza, Angel knew they were going to keep going. He just needed to convince the others.

“Are you fucking crazy,” said Ebony. “After all we’ve been through, ALL YOU’VE PUT US THROUGH, you want to keep driving away from home. HELLO! Einstein, we can’t turn the car off. What do you want us to do, leave it running for a couple days while we’re in Yosemite? What about San Francisco? I’m sure it’ll be no problem to just keep it running in the Height. Look that the car for God’s sake. We’ll be lucky if it even gets us out of this fucking gas station.”
Who could blame ebony for this little outburst? A crazy, California climber/skateboard dude has crashed his car. He’s called his trust fund manager and his insurance agent back east so they could buy this stupid car that’ll get them, and all their crap, back to town, and now this crazy dude wants to keep going. “Man, why do I always have to be the responsible one?” he ruefully thought to himself.

The Swizz just listened, thinking about getting high.

“No, man, wait, why not? We can totally keep going. Come on. It’ll be fun. We’re almost there.”
“What about the car?” Ebony posited. “We can’t turn it off.”

“Sure we can,” Angel replied.

“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?” Angel said with that demonic smile he always gets before convincing the boys to do something they’re positive they’ll regret but end up talking about years later. “We can jump it. Like, get it rolling, pop it in gear, and away we go. It’ll be as easy as parking on a hill. Come on. Nothing’s going on back in Boulder. Do you want to spend yet another night drinking beers and eating cheese dogs on the porch?”

“Yea, I do,” said the Swizz.

“No, man, come on. It’s no big deal. Let’s keep going. You’ve never been to Yosemite or even California for cripes sake. You don’t even know what you’ll be missing.”

“Well…..,” said Swizz. “Wa da ya think E?”

“Why do I hang out with you idiots?” was all he could say. “Stair rolls, roof jumping, and now this. Errr…...”

“Come on man,” Angel implored. “Let’s go.”

“I’m in,” said the Swizz.

Angel was always able to sway the Swizz. It didn’t take much. This is probably because Swizzle was always on the edge in his mind, even though it didn’t always appear that way. The fact that Angel’s edge was a little further out than Swizzle’s, and he was more confident navigating the footing out there, always made it easier for Swizzle to make the jump. Ebony always took a little more reasoning.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Ebony. “Okay, now, yea, I could maybe keep going, but……” he said. The idea didn’t seem all that impossible all of a sudden. It still seemed crazy, but in a memorable kind of way that’s only possible when you’re young and everything is possible. “Let’s at least see if we can do a roll start.”

“Yea, man, now you’re talking,” said Angel. He slid behind the wheel and turned the car off………………

Mozart Is The Original Rock Star

2010-03-04T19:23:00.002-05:00

So I'm just sitting on the plane, minding my own business. Spent two days traveling to and from Marseille to do some boat testing. I know, I know. Very rock star. But in fact, the South of France is kinda rock star. But that's a topic for another time. The point is, I'm sitting on the plane. And the put together French lady came own the aisle passing out the headphones. And since this was an Air France flight, she was passing out the special Air France headphones that have two prongs instead of just one. And the plane is equipped with ashtrays. And I remember flying on planes with French dudes smoking those French cigarettes all across the Atlantic. But again, that's a topic for another time. Point is, the headphones provided the audio for the movies. And there were lots to chose from like Steve McQueen movies, and Gandhi, and Harry Potter, and frenchie art movies, but there, in the list of movies was.....Amadeus.

Amadeus won 8 academy awards in.......1984. Why was a movie about a dude who composed music in Vienna in our movie selection here in 2010? I guess it doesn’t matter. The point is I was attracted to it. Pulled. Drawn. Sucked in to pushing play (jouier, I think in French) on the Amadeus awesomeness. You may have noticed, but the Swizz has been feeling a little self-conscious about the wig lately. Don't know what to make of it all, but the wig that has felt so right, and so good and pure for so long was getting pushed to the back of the closet. And then my man Wolfie bounds into the Emperor's court in Vienna and starts laying down the most goofy, mystical, playful, spiritual, moving music in a well worn white wig and it all seemed to make a little more sense. My man Mozart is the original Rock Star. He was loved and hated and talented, and gifted and goofy, and whacked out, and liked to party and and and......the music, even the short beautiful clips in the movie moved me to tears? How awesome is that. Some kooky, wig wearing dude in Vienna writes music that gets featured in a movie and the music is so good and so pure, it moved me to tears on an Air France flight, 25 years after the movie came out.

So there's a reason the Swizz exists and continues to exist. Of course, he has none of the talent of Mozart. But that's okay. There's the spirit. Sometimes being a Rock Star isn't easy, but it's worth it.

Boringest yet most peaceful Swizzle vid yet

2010-02-06T21:08:00.002-05:00

So this post was actually going to be the continuation of the To Be Continueds, number 12 in fact. I've been wrestling with how much to really reveal in this verbose series. I'd erased about 500 words and written 500 better words. I'd unlocked the puzzle. It was flowing. Episodes 12 through 20 were just sitting there, waiting.

And then the magnetic power cord pulled out of the computer. The battery is dead so there ain't no battery back up. The screen just went black. All gone. Reopening the file just returned me to the 500 words that I'd just trashed.

And then I looked to my left. Henry and George, just chillin' in front of the fire. Honney Bunny--chillin'. And the mellowness of the scene took over. It was mellow. I can cobble those 500 words together again, but chillin' like this should be spread and celebrated. Hope you're not too bored.

To be Continueds........continue

2010-01-23T09:56:00.007-05:00

To be Continued.......11 (click Once Upon a Time to start the story from the beginning)

So……....Wayne, the Road Warrior, pulled up in a white, 1980 Chevy Monza. He got out, left the drivers door open and the car idling on the dirt in front of the garage that he appears to call home. He walked forward, opened the hood, and started fiddling with something that must have caught his attention on the short drive from the automotive graveyard around back. He seemed happy. Was this the look of contentment that comes from finding what you are good at and then doing it? Or did something deep down in this gritty dude with missing teeth, tattered clothes, and matted hair unconsciously understand that helping these snarky college kids, helps him get closer to enlightenment? Or was he too thinking of Eunice and her freckly cleavage, all smushed up in that mustard colored uniform Gene makes her wear?

“Check out the hooptie the Road Warrior just pulled up in,” said Angel. “You think that’s the car that Gene was talking about?”

“Yup”, said Ebony as he washed his eggs down with a gulp of coffee. He had a globule of yellow yolk and masticated toast on the corner of his mouth, as he continued, “It’s not pretty, but it sure looks better than a bus ticket.”

The Swizz was still a little shook up from the morning’s activities. The eggs hit the spot, but he was just kinda empty. Or more like floating—adrift. “How’s all this gonna turn out?” he thought. “I was just minding my own business on the way to the store….” The thought trailed off the way sugar dissolves in coffee. Slowly becoming opaque…… suspended.

Angel called over to Eunice, “Can we get the check maam?” like he’d been stopping here on his truck drivin route for the last 10 years. Doesn’t he know that they know he’s a t-shirt wearin, rock climbin, national park campin, car crashin college boy from Cali? Is he mocking the good people of Delle, Utah or trying to fit in?

“Sure honey,” she said.

And that was it. The boys pooled together their crinkled up ones and fives and paid the bill.

“That’s quite a car you got there Gene,” said Angel as the boys spilled out of the double wide and into the bright Utah desert sun.

“Yep, it is,” said Gene as he pushed the brim of his cowboy hat back and pulled the toothpick from his mouth. “Ol’ Wayne here got it runnin. Found it by the side of the road a few months back. Abandoned by the looks of it.”

“Who abandons a car by the side of the road?” asked the Swizz to no one in particular.

“Got me,” said Gene. “But then again, who jumps into and out of the only runoff ditch within 50 miles in a beat up Volkswagen? I’ll tell ya boys, you do this job enough and nothing will surprise you after a while.”
Huh? Has Gene really seen that much? I mean c’mon. He’s the “mayor” and the “Chief of Police,” of a town that consists of two trailers and two gas pumps? What has he seen? Road kill? Tumbleweeds?

Wayne let the hood of the idling car fall with a thwap. “I’ll sell it to ya if you want,” said Gene.

The boys looked at each other. “Uh yea. Wa da ya think boys?” said Ebony.

“Let’s take it for a spin,” said Angel.

“Yea, boys. Do what ever you need,” said Gene.

The boys piled in. Since this was going to be replacing Ebony’s car, he did the test drive, like a Dad or similarly responsible person would. Swizz jumped into the cramped back seat and Angel slipped smilingly into the shotgun seat.

Ebony slipped it into first and pulled away from the garage. The white Monza with it’s cargo of college boys did a quick loop around the driveway and pulled right back up infront of Gene and Wayne.

“We’ll take it,” said Angel.

“Whoa, whoa,” said Ebony. “We don’t even know how much Gene wants for it.”

“Yea, boys, you need to learn a thing or two about negotiations. I’ve got you over a barrel now.” Said Gene with a demonic “Heh, Heh, Heh.”

Yep, ol Gene was quite the deal broker. “Okay, Gene what do you want for it?” said Ebony.

“$300”

“Oooh, that’s kinda steep don’tcha think?” said Ebony O’Malley chief negotiator. “Seeing how we weren’t really planning on doing any car shopping on this trip, we’ve only got $200. Could you do $200?” he said with an impish smile.

“Well boys. Ol’ Wayne here put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into that there jalopy,” said Gene looking over at Wayne. “Wa da ya think Wayne?”

The road warrior just stood there. Sure he could get the car running from the parts that he harvested from the auto graveyard around back but the next step eluded him. He didn’t know what to do. He’d never really be asked for his opinion about anything….ever. All he could think to do was raise his dirty right hand up to the 5 days of beard he had on his chin. It made a coarse sandpaper sound when he rubbed it in what he hoped would appear to be a contemplative pose. All eyes were on Wayne. The highway hummed in the background and sun kept beating down. I guess you could say there was a pregnant pause. Nobody really knew what to do. Gene was fascinated by Wayne’s “contemplation”. The boys just wanted to get the deal done so they could transfer all the crap: climbing gear, coolers, sleeping bags, camping pads, tents, peanut butter and jelly, road maps, fishing rods, and the basketball and the *&%#$ tennis racket into the car so they could limp home. The Swizz was thinking that they could be drinking beer’s and stoking up the bar-b-que on the porch before sundown.

Finally, Gene broke the silence. “You look like ok boys. You’ve been through a helluva morning and I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. $225. You better take it before I change my mind or ol’ Wayne here talks me out of it.”

Everybody, including Wayne knew that ol’ Wayne wasn’t talking anybody out of anything.

“Deal,” said Ebony. Copious handshaking ensued like they’d just signed a nuclear non-proliferation treaty right there in the dust, and sun, and heat of the desert.

The car was still idling. The doors were left open revealing the cracked vinyl interior.

Then like a kid asking for permission to speak in home room, Wayne raised his hand…………………

To Be Continued
(click Once Upon a Time to start the story from the beginning)

Schism Forming in Swizzle's Psyche

2010-01-11T19:39:00.004-05:00

The Swizz has been more than happy to Swizz it up lo, these many months, but there seems to be cracks forming in Swizzleland. And the crazy thing is we can't really be sure what's going on or what ultimate end these chinks seem to be foreshadowing. At times, the Swizz begs to play more than just a bit part; times when the Swizz demands to be more than just some wig wearing, doughnut eating, discoball wearing stand in/pseudo alter ego. The Swizz wants to be the primary ego. Front and center. Grocery shopping--the Swizz. Returning a library book--Le Swizz. Lunch with a friend--El Swizz-a-dante. And often times Il Swizz-er-ino is in fact the primary ego.

But then there are times when the other egos start worrying. Worrying that the Swizz may just take hold in ways that could prove problematic for everyone. "Hey what about us," they say. "What about YOU?," they remark. "What's happening to you?" "Do you know what people are saying about you/Swizzle?" they query. "They think you are just a goofball/poser/psudeo self aggrandizer with a curious affinity for wigs and disguises," they scold like the kids in JR high would do. "What's up with that?" they ask.

Fair question.

In fleeting moments of clarity however, the curious reality takes hold again. The Swizz exists for the very reason that the nay-sayers say he shouldn't. For the exact reason that the nay sayers say nay/worry/mock/and try to put the Swizz back into the sub-conscious. The Swizz is really not that complicated. He's just freedom. Free. Free to be exactly as he is. And it sounds kinda corny, but the Swizz's goal, his guiding light, his mission is.....to just be free. Free to be a goofball/poser/self aggrandizer. Free to be free. Cue retorical question.....What's wrong with that?

Uhhhhhhhhhh. Nothing.

Or maybe it's all in my head. This is going to be interesting. Tune in later this week to see how it all works out. In the meantime check out the vid from the CD release party gig.

Sub-freezing moment of Zen

2009-12-12T09:13:00.034-05:00

I've been hoping to post a Moment of Zen each day since we've returned from the blue, blue water, but unfortunately, the mundane has interfered just a bit. The cool thing is that thanks to the blue, blue water, the mundane isn't as mind-numbing or as odious. Yes, I spent 12 hours in the car (one day in a wicked early season snow storm) commuting to the mundane last week, and yes, the work spigot was turned on full blast after the 10 days away from the computer screen, but, it's all good. The Zen endures inspite of the mundane. Notice the sound of the waves. It was kinda like living in one of those self-help meditation CD's (you know, the ones with the sounds of the ocean or birds chirping in a meadow) that people buy. Actually it was way better than that.

I sincerely hope these little interludes help all you 7 people out in Swizzle-land. Maybe I'm a a simpleton, but I believe tuning into stuff like this every once in a while can be a therapeutic use of a computer screen. Or maybe the Swizz has just gone around the bend and will soon start touting the benefits of soft jazz or Yani, or Michael Bolton.

Swizzle's Moment of Zen

2009-12-07T07:10:00.002-05:00

Yes it's Monday morning. Kinda cold outside. The leaves are gone and there's a dusting of snow on the ground. The news reports traffic snarls and overturned trucks on the highway, military surges, and Tiger Woods' wife swinging a golf club at him a 2 AM, but the question is: How much does it matter, really? Who cares? I learned many things during these last 10 days away, but the most important and honestly, the most obvious (at least to me) is to always be where my feet are. It may be a bit of Yogi Bera common sense but hey, I never said I was the smartest kid in class. So here's a moment of zen to start the week of with. Not complicated. Not even particularly insightful. Just a simple and conscious respite from any maelstroms that may be swirling in your various orbits.

Swizzle battles boredom by captaining a 757 back from the Caribbean

2009-12-06T17:40:00.005-05:00

We'll begin at the end; the sad but exciting end to 10 full, luscious, rejuvenating, sun-filled days and moonlit nights away from work, and email, and computer screens. The story of those 10 days will unfold here in Swizzleland in future episodes, but we ended on such a high, that we may as well start there. Yup, the title pretty much sums it up. Nothing can put a spring in your step and a swizzle in your stick better than pushing a couple of jet engines to full throttle and taking off in the cockpit of a 757. Come. Fly away with the Swizz.

Is the Swizz the Swizz when he's not on Camera?

2009-11-17T05:25:00.003-05:00

It's an interesting question that came up when I was on my way to the gig last Friday night when I realized that I'd forgotten the trusty waterproof camera that usually accompanies me on any adventure where the Swizz may appear. I was decked out in discoball pants, a yellow polo shirt, and a tie with sailboats on it. The girl in the Starbucks I always stop at before every gig was all smiles when she said "I really like the pants."

"Thanks." I said. "So do I."

So, as the first wave of caffeine started to course through my veins I had a decision to make: Do I turn around to go get the camera and risk being late for the gig , or do I just keep going. The truth is, if just being late for the gig was the only variable, I would have. But I didn't. Because right there and then, in my old car that sounds like it may throw a rod, or have a wheel come flying off if I take a turn to fast, I stroked my 70's style mustache/hair fangs and realized the purity that comes from not being on camera. It's a litmus test really. How good are you when nobody's looking? And by "good" I don't mean how "good" would my drumming be or how "good" of a rock star I could be, but rather, how good/pure/honest/unselfish am I when nobody's looking?

And that's when it hit me. The Swizz doesn't need to be on camera to be the Swizz. The Swizz just is.

And of course people were looking. The Starbucks girl was only the first of many girls/women to say "Nice Pants". No guys said "nice pants" and I guess that's a good thing? The stage light exploded into thousands of little laser beams as it interacted with the pants. The Swizz stood on the drum throne and screamed "She Sells Sanctuaraaaaaaaaaaaaay" from that Cult tune from the early 90's and the sweat tricked down from under the wig. Weather the camera was rolling or not had absolutely nothing to do with it. The Swizz is free and odd and fun and hopefully thought provoking, and in spite of the fact that it takes a small dose of premeditation to get duded up in a wig, he never really knows what's going to happen. Sometimes a camera catches it. Sometimes not. And both are good. There's a wonderful permanence when a spontaneous act is caught on film, but how can that compare to magic of the moment? Is it really possible to capture the moment while you're living it?

MARS Music Train arrives at Precinct Bar on Friday the 13th

2009-11-11T08:40:00.003-05:00

That's right folks. After about a calendar year in the Studio, the MARS music train is bringing the live show out from behind the glass wall of the control room. There will be thrills. There will be chills. And as Bill Cosby used to say before every episode of Fat Albert, "Hey, Hey, Hey......There'll be music and fun and you might just learn something before we're done........Na....Na....Na.....Gonna have a good time........."

Who: MARS
What: Awesomeness
Where: Precinct Bar, Union Sq. Somerville, MA
When: Friday the 13th (awesomeness begins @ 9PM)
Why: Because Awesomeness is awesome only when awesome people congregate
www.myspace.com/marsrockband

Oh Yea, A Shakespearean Disco Donkey Show is Fun

2009-11-07T19:56:00.008-05:00

Who knew what to expect at "The Donkey Show" that was literally playing across the street from a staid, stuffy, ivy covered institution of higher education? Was there really going to be some sort of human/animal husbandry on display? And how would William "Disco Diva" Shakespeare play into all of this? Who cares? The mission was fun, and just the idea that we had tickets to a Shakespearean Disco Donkey Show was enough to revive our fun receptors that had gone painfully dormant lately.

The fun factor kicked in even before we slipped under the velvet rope and into a Studio 54 revival taking place inside. Genvieve in her high heels and ultra-glam wig dispensed hugs with reckless abandon, a rollerskating Puck welcomed us into the fairytale world of the Disco Midsummer's Night Dream they had created right there in Harvard Square, Guido the bouncer who was working the velvet rope was impressed with Swizzle's posse of hot, polyester-clad babes, and the feeling that we'd found an oasis of frivolous fun after many months spent in the desert of the mundane was a salve for the soul. We'd found our people.

The goal of this video was to capture all the awesomeness of the Donkey Show. It may fall a bit short, but even a taste of Disco reverie is better than none at all. And when it was all over, The Swizzles, Francois, Genevieve and a mystery guest kept the groove going at a bar/restaurant down the street. The paradox of sitting and having some yuppie-type appetizers in a pseudo/swanky bar in Harvard Square clad in wigs and sunglasses was liberating. And the mission of Swizzle became even more apparent. Yes, the goofiness that gets posted here may appear to be drivel, but I think it serves a much higher purpose. Swizzle-land is not about me. It's about the Swizzles and Genvieve's and Francois's in all of us. We not only revived the smiles within ourselves, we brought out smiles in others. Perfect strangers--smiling, saying hi, and maybe even seeing the possibility of freedom that they are looking for in themselves in our goofy wig clad posse? More than ever, I have a firm belief that we all have an alter ego or egos within. And we're all better off when the rock star, or the hipster, or the french fashionista within comes out and plays among the people. What's the name of your alter ego? There's no better place to unleash it than the Donkey Show. And we'll be going back. Who's coming with us?

Oh Yea, it's fun having fun

2009-11-05T17:33:00.004-05:00

Okay now. Who's coming with us? I forgot that I once learned the art of fun having, and part of fun having is having partners to share in the luminescent joy, and the goofy, goofiness of having fun for fun's sake . So.......... we're shaking the shackles of the mundane for the soothing caress of the blue, blue water. Who's in? We leave on November 29th and return on Dec 5th? Do join us. All you'll need is a high tolerance for being surrounded....plunged.......baptized, I say, in awesomeness. The destination? A secret island where the water feels like fine linen and the mood is ebullient.

Doesn't Anyone Have Any Fun Anymore?

2009-10-28T08:16:00.008-04:00

The blog troll will probably chime in with "Give me a break Billy "Mr Entitlement" Swizzle, don't you know life isn't about having fun?" But I don't care. I want to know if anybody is having any fun out there. It seems with all of our economic troubles, people who are working, have to work harder than ever, and people who aren't, are freaking out because they aren't. Yea, I know life isn't only about having fun, but isn't it a little bit about having fun? Doesn't a little fun take the sting out of real life just a bit? I'm starting to think that having fun is going out of style. Maybe I've been watching too many gloom and doom documentaries about the great depression and the great recession and as a result, my perspective has been skewed towards puritanical punishment and restraint. "No, it's not okay to have fun. Don't you know times are tough?" Is anyone else looking forward to celebrating the end of 2009 thinking, "Good riddance 2009"

Well you know what? If having a little fun (including making fun of myself) is wrong, I don't want to be right. Things may be a little more scary and unsettled than they used to be, but that's no excuse to forgo fun. I may be giving myself a pep talk here, but it's time to get back and start doing all those frivolous things that shine the light of joy and laughter into the dark cave of uncertainty and credit card payments. Who's with me? Bowling on a weeknight. Sign me up. Catching up with a friend I haven't seen in a while. Let's make it happen. Staying out late and living like a Rock Star? Bring it. Drinking coffee and conducting the Wii Olympics? Let the games begin.

How about celebrating the fact that the days are getting longer and we're descending into the darkness of the New England fall with a cocktail/dance party where all the women wear bikini tops/push up bras and all the men go shirtless. We'll stoke up the fire in the fireplace and dance to Michael Jackson until the wee hours--or at least 11:00 before people have to go home to relieve their babysitters. Come on people. Who's with me?

Swizzle's Special Shout Out

2009-10-17T11:41:00.005-04:00

This is the first installment of what will be a recurring feature here in Swizzleland--The Swizzle-Shout-Out. Now I've just returned from the Mondo Boatshow, and there's a ton to report, but frankly I'm wicked tired and need to just chill in front of the fire for a bit. But my weariness will not keep me from launching the first of many Swizzle-Shout-Outs. So here we go. This Swizzle-Shout-Out goes out to.....the dynamic duo of Will and my man Mac-daddy. This boat is for you guys. It's not a Wally Yacht, but it's got low slung Italian style that I know you'll dig.

Uhh.........Swizzle the Sailor?

2009-10-13T23:16:00.004-04:00

Yea man, so, uh, Iike, ummmm, let's try to test sail 20 boats in 3 days. Umm...... uhhh......it'll be fun. Much more later.

Just Hangin' with the Maestro

2009-10-01T08:34:00.003-04:00

Now the Swizz like to think of himself as the Maestro from time to time. And maybe we're all the Maestros. But we bump into all sorts of stuff, the need to practice, lack of enthusiasm, and personality conflicts within our own personal orchestra, that makes it easy to forget we are Maestros. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not walking around with conductors wand telling the violins to play "allegro", and the horn section... "pianissimo, pianissimo". I'd like to, and sometimes I have the delusion that tells me I know how to direct all the players in my little orchestra. So how can the Swizz think of himself as a Maestro that, in actual fact, has no control? Paradoxical...no? Ironic perhaps? Delusional....definitely. But the Swizz is a Maestro, with a capital M, (more like aspires to be), in the way that Maestro Benjamin Zander is a Maestro. Zander is the Maestro of possibility, the master of possibility. Possibility is the opposite of the abyss. Swizz puts on the black tails, the white wig, and wields the conductors wand of possibility a good chunk of the time. Yet, the abyss still exerts it's gravitational pull. Seeing the Maestro in action, in person (with his children's orchestra of the world), and on this TED conference video, reminds me of the possibility of possibility. I hope it does the same for you. The talk is about 20 minuets long but it's worth it.

Just hanging with Dr. Phil

2009-09-16T14:30:00.002-04:00

Yep, just hanging with Dr. Phil. You know, learning how to live in our fast paced world from a big bald guy who first went on Oprah (to dispense soulful wisdom to all the ladies watching tee-vee at 4 pm), who then spun his burgoning fame into his own gig on one of the other big networks. Now if that isn't the American Dream in action I don't know what is. Kinda like Fraser. How on earth does a guy like Kelsey Gramer get on tee-vee playing a stuck-up psycologist with an affected accent become so popular as to warrant a show (that had quite a sucessful run mind you), that's only about the hi-jinks and bally-ho that he and his merlot sipping, brother get up to? But I guess that's the American Dream in action too. And it's all cool. Live long and prosper Dr. Phil and Kelsey Gramer.

Swizzle Drivel at the MOMA

2009-09-15T07:47:00.009-04:00

The latest installment of "SWIZZLE DRIVEL" (thanks Ms. Blog Troll for that one) has Swizzle actually participating in art at the MOMA. Not just experiencing art. Or thinking about the art. Or being awed or moved by it, but actually becoming part of the art. We were transported. Just like getting on a plane and going to Southeast Asia. Just as vital. Just as powerful. And knowing that the name Swizzle is written on a gallery wall at the MOMA, and will always be there no matter what happens (eventhough the gallery wall where the exhibit---thousands of names written on the white, white, walls that correspond to each visitors height, like the growth charts that we all have in the houses we grew up in--has already been painted over), feels like a sort of Art immortality. Do you remember where the growth chart was in your house? Was in in the kitchen by the phone? You know, lines on the wall with your height, marked with your name and date. I know we had two. One on a beam in the kitchen--I think it's still there. And one at my grandparents house. Growth chart. Growth. Permanent record of growth. And how about the hand prints you made in freshly poured concrete when you were a kid? I can see my little hand prints captured in the concrete we poured at the house I grew up in in 1977. I was 9. I was the same guy, but not. Is that immortality? Permanence in a decidedly impermanent world? Or is immortality overrated---like the Swizz?

NYC, Art, Hipsterness? and the blog troll

2009-09-14T08:03:00.008-04:00

"Anonymous said...
Climbing back from the abyss? God I've never seen such an over privileged (are your or your wife a Beantown trust funder?) ego-centric, hipster wanna be drivel on a blog. I mean seriously...GIVE ME A BREAK!"

Yea man. So as you can see by the featured comment above, there seems to be a blog troll, trolling around the Swizzle blog. And that's just awesome. So cool to have a blog troll that's so statuesque up on her high horse providing commentary and insight about the drivel that's being spooned out here in Swizzle-land. Such a hater? Why so much hate Ms. blog troll? Do you blog about important issues like health care, family planning, or your pet goldfish named Gil? Is your blog and/or your experience in the world so vital and so weighty and so altruistic that you feel the need/absolutely compelled to voice your disdain for anything that doesn't fit into your small little box, in your small little world? If you are so above Swizzle drivel why are you reading this blog? Perhaps you were just slumming/trolling through the intellectual/spiritual wasteland of the blogsphere in an effort to make yourself feel a little better about things, and voila, you happened upon a blog that's written by someone you don't know, and seized on the opportunity to try to prop yourself up by voicing your disdain for something that you simply don't understand. If that's the case I hope it worked. I hope you feel better because Swizzle-land is actually (and only) designed to provide a little distraction. Is that so bad? Are you so focused and so committed and so one dimensional that you need someone to "GIVE YOU A BREAK" from any and all distractions? Well I for one am glad you slithered over and I hope you can chime in again to voice your displeasure for other topics you may see posted here. I hope you don't mind, but you've now become part of the fabric of Swizzle-land, and for that, I an truely grateful. And I'd love to hear what you think about this latest post. We were down in NYC this weekend and (perish the thought) we attended an exclusive black tie event. What a privilege.

And as you'll see in this and subsequent videos, we indulged in art. As David Lee Roth once said, One Break.......coming up.

Swizzle's Studio Pants

2009-09-11T08:19:00.002-04:00

Back in the studio last night. Not to lay anything down but just to reconnect with the boys and see how things are progressing. Pretty cool to hear some greasy, nasty piano tracks being laid down. I think the Swizz is turning the corner in many different ways. And, Oh yea, these pants should be outlawed. Just too, too good. Is it weird that the Swizz cares what type of pants he has? Is it weird that he wears a wig and big sunglasses. Is it weird that he continues to wear a wing and sunglasses and a rayon shirt and disco-ball pants while talking into a little video camera? It seems a little weird, no? Or does it?

Sailing and Duran Duran

2009-09-08T10:22:00.004-04:00

Continuing to crawl out of the abyss. Sailing with the homies on the Penobscot Bay goodness and making bad Duran Duran knock off music videos.

Swizzle is crawling back from the Abyss

2009-08-28T22:23:00.019-04:00

You probably hadn't noticed, but the Swizz has gone dark lately. Was it the change of working from home with extended bursts of commuting 3 hours a day? Was it the summer blahhs, or the let down of returning to the mundane after having a good long pull from the cup of freedom? Maybe it was the Abyss. Black. Dark. Lonely. Maybe I let my guard down just long enough for the painful, self fulfilling, gravitational pull of the Abyss to really kick in. As a result, everything seemed to be covered in a not so thin film of gauze. It's hard to Swizz-it-up when it seems everything, even your soul, is weighted down, like the lead vest the dental hygienist puts on your chest when you go in for dental X-rays. You know how it feels. Heavy and constricting, but there's also a certain comfort in that--protection or some sort of safety in the uniform pressure of the heavy lead bib.

But the Swizz is fighting back. And as pop culture and cliche as it may be, watching Teddy Kennedy's memorial service tonight moved me. Moved my soul. He was a flawed man who experienced great pain and loss who came back. He came back and lived a life that more than made up for the flaws. He loved. It's really pretty simple and I guess you can say corny. And yeah, he was rich and a senator and all that, but that stuff can never move me (will that alone move anyone?) What moved me was what I've known for a while now, giving, loving, truly sharing with and caring about other people is what moves my soul and shines the light on the Abyss that's simply a small dark meaningless corner of a very big world.

Belmont to Cape Cod Preppie-land on the bike

2009-08-06T16:08:00.004-04:00

The Swizz just can't seem to get enough of the bike these days. 85 miles is a bit of a ways to get to the beach but there you have it. The carrot at the end was sitting on the beach eating ultra-buttery snack bar hot dogs under an umbrella. What says summer more than 4 hot dogs on a beach under an umbrella?

Behind the Sunglasses: Swizzle's tell-all interview

2009-08-04T08:16:00.009-04:00

Questions always seem to rise to the surface when the The Swizz is involved. Some say he's absolutely normal in the way that our fascination with Michael Jackson's death seems normal, but in other ways he kinda sticks out like a sore thumb. A sore thumb who is usually well received with a smile and a thumbs up, but a sore thumb nonetheless. The Swizz lives in a world of pure, uncut freedom and that can seem a bit odd. Pure, uncut freedom can be a bit scary, no? But the Swizz is quite adroit at grooving down the line between freedom and chaos. There are layers, strata, and above all else..... Big White Sunglasses. And when a couple of really smart reporters, asked some really smart questions, Swizzle surprised himself with how liberating it felt to let them... "Behind The Sunglasses" even for just a little while.

Reunion awesomness

2009-07-28T20:12:00.004-04:00

Yea man, the reunion down in CT was the bomb. Some 38 year old dudes streaked the way they did back in the day, there was some boggie down, and there was a white boy that was just over the top.

Honey Bunny's highschool reunion

2009-07-26T22:10:00.003-04:00

Wackyness seemes to be the order of the day before a certain high school reunion. Especially from the "White Boy." Notice the matching t-shits, spontanous dodgeball, salt water swimming, and bumping into all sorts of cool cats on the mean streets of Greenwich, CT. And this was just the preview for the big night.

Swizzle ventures to the edge of the civilized world both literally and emotionally

2009-07-18T18:31:00.004-04:00

Yea... so....I don't really know what to make of the Swizz on this one. The latest bike diary is part nature ride, part Morality play, and all about staring into the abyss for just a brief moment. What's that all about? The Swizz was just all duded up in the spandex and the bike helmet: Headed out for a pleasant little hammer-fest. You know....ride the bike through the quaint New England countryside until you you're ready to throw up. Sounds fun......right? We'll it is. Anyhoo, before the Swizz could dodge the pot holes and the Nissan Sentra drivers on the mean streets of Belmont, Mr Road Rage decides that the Swizz is a good target to pull over next to and, curiously, get up in my face. Hmmmmmm. So Mr. Road Rage (obviously a card carying member of Mensa), stops his Sentra, and trys to tell me how tough he is. Hmmmmmmmmm. I guess I can't blame him for calling me a faggot and thinking that today is the day that he's going to 1. pull over, 2. stop traffic, 3. get in the face of someone he's never met before, but the crazy thing is..............I was ready. I was ready to.............physically make him regret that he picked me to.... ahem.....tell me how tough he is. I went from do-to-do-to-do.... going out to ride the bike until I throw up, to, being capable, and almost relishing the opportunity to hurt a guy that's got it coming. Amazing. I was wound up like a spring. He had no idea what was going to happen to him. None. He had no idea what I was capable of at the moment he kicked my bike like a girl. I'm not kidding. He kicked my bike like a girl, and he had no idea how close he was to being on the other end of something he couldn't imagine. Wild isn't it?

Never have I been more grateful for that little pause. The little pause that happens (that I was blessed with today) in the heat of something. The pause (it's not a hesitation, and it's not a backtrack) it's simply a pause that happens at high states of awareness. My entire being was coiled, amped, excited about what was going to happen. And then............

I smiled. I shook my finger like......no,no,no.....and pulled on the corporate id tag (of course it was connected to an automatic retracting device) that the dude was wearing and simply said, (not yelled.....said) "Get back in your car and go back to your miserable little life." The id tag recoiled with a thwipt.

"Oh yea, I'm going back to my miserable fucking life," he said. "You're a faggot and I've got a miserable fucking life."

And you know what. That's exactly what he did.

But, seeing what I was capable of, and would have done if it weren't for the pause, was a bit of a shock. I wasn't scared of him. I wasn't. He didn't matter and hardly even existed really. Wierd. I knew what was going to happen and it would have been serious. That kinda scared me. That ol' abyss....it's kinda cagey. Can an abyss or the dark side even be cagey? Please forgive the Swizz if you aren't down with the moral of the story. I'm sure he'll be back at something silly in no time.

Swizzle rides Gus the Donkey

2009-07-13T08:37:00.003-04:00

Swizzle and the cutest kid in the world ride Gus the Donkey in a secret paradise. Who knew donkey riding would be so fun and in the end, kind of impossible unless you are a somewhat weightless kid wearing a bike helmet?

Speed and power

2009-07-07T09:23:00.002-04:00

Just buzzing a bad ass cigarette boat with a budha painted on the bow. Listen for the sound of the boat's engines over the sound of the helio. To bad the camera I used over exposed everything. Just another day at the office.

MARS rocks the free world

2009-06-20T13:04:00.003-04:00

Yep, MARS made history in the land of Pee. Man the Cantab smelled like pee. It's like the pipes are so old that the pee and other gross stuff just hangs out in the ancient bathrooms with the floor length urinals. But we're not complaining. A suitable venue to make history that the people who were there will say "I was there when MARS played the Pee Palace and they brought it old school.

Swizzles cruise Hyannisport, MA on mini-motos

2009-06-08T10:21:00.006-04:00

Since it's kinda tough to get back to Hanoi, we decided to bring some of the Hanoi/developing nation/high energy transportation vibe to Hyannisport, Massachusetts. The resulting combination of preppie enclave, mini-motos, and the Madame Swizz is the bomb.

News Flash: Swizzle sprung to speed across the Sea

2009-06-05T14:30:00.011-04:00

Yea man. Freedom. F-R-E-E-D-O-M. Word came down from the highest seats of power that the Swiz had to be sprung from the Forces of Darkness. Satelites and spy planes triangulated Swizzle's location, then the big guns were sent in.

RIP: Beloved Bianchi Bike

2009-04-14T16:18:00.006-04:00

It's a sad day in Swizzleland. My beloved bike was stolen. Who does such things? It's rusty and worn and not worth nothin' to nobody except me. And it's gone. All I have is forlorn looks at every bike rack I encounter, hoping, just hoping that the criminal mastermind, the genius, the card-carrying Mensa member with pair of bolt cutters who stole my bike happens to slip up. Ahh man. That bike carried me through traffic and wind and rain and sleet and pot holes. Bone chilling cold, searing summer days, and ink black nights with nary a complaint. Sure I never really did the maintenance I needed to. And sure it'd broke down at inopportune moments. But it was a thoroughbred. A trusty steed. A panacea for all that ails the humble office worker. It was a bike that I logged about 8,000 miles on (in seven mile increments) over a decade. Maybe even more. It was a part of me and now.....it's gone. So in memory of my beloved Bianchi, I offer the last bike diary ever filmed. My grief is so severe I may never do another bike diary again. Just like when John Bonham died. You know the drummer from Led Zeppelin? The surviving members of the band were asked if they'd get another drummer and all they could say was........"How do you replace something like that. Even thinking about a replacement is unthinkable. Led Zeppelin died with John." And so it has. At least until the reunion tour.

Paddling through Vietnam

2009-04-09T10:11:00.004-04:00

We had it all in Vietnam. Chaos. Communist governments. Live pigs, chickens, ducks, and dogs on motorcycles. Expats. Pollution. Fine art. High tea. Silk products. Hand bags. Dong. Kayaking. Add it all up and you get........the Bomb.

Swizzles swizzle through the rice in Northern Vietnam

2009-04-08T09:17:00.005-04:00

We escaped the moto madness of Hanoi for bicycles and the hot, moist, ultra green rice fields of Mai Chau about 4 hours west of Hanoi. And of course, the Swizz found a dope lid to help beat the heat and complete the dress socks/Puma ensemble.

Swizzles swizzle through Hanoi on Motorbike

2009-04-06T14:27:00.011-04:00

We're back on American soil and I don't really know where to begin, so we may as well start in the middle. I'd hoped to keep the updates flowing from Southeast Asia, but it got to a point to where there was so much stimulation, so much new, so much energy, so much paradoxical freedom, so much stuff happening all the time going up, down, and all around, I just needed to swim in it all while we were there so I could tell the tales and cut the vids properly when we got back.
Needless-to-say (but I'll say it anyway), the bright lights and manic yuppie energy of Belmont-rock-city seem to pale just a little bit when compared to Paris, or Amsterdam or Cologne, or Singapore, and don't even get me started on Hanoi.
The intoxicating vibe of Vietnam took hold of us as soon as we stepped out of the first world (Business class seats on Singapore Airlines) and into the maelstrom of the developing world. Sometimes words can tell a story better than pictures, but this isn't one of those times. Come along for the ride as the Swizzles swerve through the ancient, tree lined arteries of Hanoi on a motorscooter/cycle.
I don't have to go back to work until April 27th (negotiated the new position and start date on the train from Amsterdam to Brussels)....... the countdown has begun. I understand how valuable the freedom I've been granted is, and I hope to make the most of what I've seen and what I hope to see, by tickling the keyboard keys for the next 21 days with reckless abandon. The Swizz has been busy, and so have I. Buckle your seat belts.

Tasting the smell and seeing the sound

2009-03-29T11:03:00.011-04:00

There is way more to report than there is time or energy to do justice to now. Vietnam and this entire trip has blown the wig clean off the head. Stimulation is coursing through the veins like a high grade stimulant. Smiles and dust and greenness and mountains and pigs and chickens and dogs and ducks and pho and and expats and locals and wires and progress and trash and colonials and gunshots and everybody going everywhere and doing everything and energy, energy, manic energy plays like a terminal techincolor dream reel where you taste the smell and see the sound and feel the freedom like a green wet breeze. Chaos is the baseline, the starting point, the Alpha. The chaos inside the chaos provides something......meaning........laughs......questions? Lots of short video clips are on the way. City, country, seaside and the Swizz navigating the chaos will be explored.

The freedom of chaos in Hanoi

2009-03-25T03:52:00.010-04:00

The Swizzle World Tour has touched down and for the first time in about 10 days and we're having a bit of a rest day. Well the Swizz is anyway (Caroline and our wonderful host Leslie are off to the US Embasy and then proceding directly to the retail therapy portion of the tour).

The rain is pouring down on the moldy orange tile roofs of the french quarter. The rusty ceiliing fan is slowly and loudly whirling around overhead......... hypnotic........... mesmarizing............unballenced. The heat and moisture pushes down like a lead filled apron the dental hyginist puts on your chest when you get your teeth X-rayed. This comunist capital is a cachonaphy of chaos. Scooter horns, barking dogs. Vietnameese screams cut through exotic/dangerous undercurrents like a school bell anouncing recess is over..............This is the End.............My only friend the End.

Actually it's nothing like that. I just couldn't resist the Francis Ford Copolla intro to this place. In fact, I'm comfortablly ensconced on the 11th floor of a truly comfortable air conditioned apartment. Looking down on the chaos. Free to ponder rather than simply survive. Major quanities of coffee are coursing through my veins and thoughts of freedom are coursing through my mind.

On the surface, the Swizzle blog may appear to be only about the self-indulgent adventures of the Swizz. But I hope the Swizzleblog can become (or represent, or just be) a little beacon of freedom. Or an example of freedom. The Swizz isnt real. But he is. He's a part of me. I like him eventhough I may not understand him. The truth is I don't need to. He just is. I'm learning as I let him out in the world, my world becomes richer. I can't really explain it, but I hope to share it. Share the freedom that comes when parts of us that are there, below the surface, come out. The Swizz isn't a Jeckll and Hyde thing at all. The Swizz is a force of goodness. And I believe we all have an inner Swizz. Maybe your inner Swizz wears a white suit like that dandy/author Tom Wolfe. Or maybe, yours wears a miniskirt, knee high boots with four inch stiletto heels (we hope) and super red lipstick. Or maybe yours is a Jane Goodall type that hangs out with gorillas in the mist, or.............I could go on.......into the night.........but I think you get the picture. So, after that verbose description, I hope the Swizzleblog can be a landing pad for all of our alter egos to come out an play. A cool bar that's in Hanoi or Nairobi, or Billings, Montana, or outer space (like the cantina in Star Wars with the crazy alien band where Luke meets Han Solo). I encourage, implore, request, invite, did I say implore, you all to become a part of the Swizzle family. SWIZZLELAND.......The Confederation of the Free, The Committee of Chaos (love to hear more suggestions for names of this world we are creating) and become a guest blogger. It's not hard at all. Just send me your thoughts and some photos. Even better. Send me a link to a Youtube video I can embed with your post. Wouldn't you like to meet your alter ego and hang out with other alter egos in a totally fun and interesting and somewhat weird place?

You see, we touched down in Hanoi yesterday after a quick visit with friends in Singapore. The impact of the contrast was severe in me. Singapore is rich, clean, hot and an ultra organized big city...with the busiest port in the world. There were 100s of ships waiting to dock and do business etc. But I was overwhelmed with a feeling that Big Brother was watching me. I had to be on my best behavior because Big Brother was watching. It was a viseral feeling of control. Like the whole society was built on control, and you know what, it is. And I didn't like it. Not one bit. So when we landed in Communist Hanoi, with the noise and the traffic and the smell of burning plastic in the air and the street vendors and the occatitional military guys wearing green uniforms and a red star on their hats, I didn't know what to expect. Would the secret police be tailing us like we'd seen in the movies? Would Charlie be jumping out from behind a car and..........It's not like that at all. Hanoi is probably the most chaotic place I've ever been, and the paradox is.....I feel more free in this crazy place that I did in ultra scrubbed, ultra nice Singapore. Who knows what it all means but I bet I'll learn more as I go along. All I know is that freedom isn't always what you think it is. And wait till I get on the motocycle that I've rented for 7 dollars a day.

The Paradox of Awesomeness

2009-03-23T17:26:00.009-04:00

The Swizzle World Tour is in Singapore now. Flew outa Paris, stopped, in Frankfurt, and then grooved on down in business class for the 12 hour flight to Singapore, (oh the honey bunny is good with the upgrades). It's about 5 am Tuesday Singapore time. And we are pretty well rested considering we have been to Germany (Frankfurt and Cologne), Holland (Awesome Amsterdam), Belgium (Brugge), the city of light (Paris), and then back to Frankfurt and on to Southeast Asia in only 6 days. I've shot more video than I've go time to edit and we've had more random coolness than we've had time to process. The bottom line is we both understand what a gift this freedom is and we want to savor every minute of it. It may sound like a bit of a contradiction to say...."We've done so much stuff we don't have time to process it AND....we are savoring our freedom" but what can I say? That's exactly what's happening. We wouldn't change a thing. In only the first six days of this three week long trip we've already made some pretty cool friendships, experienced all the energizing highs and lows of navigating in places we haven't seen before, and done things that we never would have done if we weren't in the competitours 'race" across Europe. Now we are in Singapore for a day before heading up to Hanoi. What's gonna happen next? Bread wrapped around a block of ice cream for desert perhaps?

Greetings from the Swizzles in Paris

2009-03-22T09:55:00.001-04:00

The Swizzles touch down in Paris. And watch the sparks fly.

Swizzle Cribs: Verseilles

2009-03-22T09:51:00.002-04:00

just a taste of the good life of Swizzle VI

Swizzle naked and living like a rock star in Paris

2009-03-22T09:49:00.003-04:00

I don't have much time so here's just a couple snaps as an app. Much more to come. I've got 12 hours on the plane to weave the tale. It's a wacky one.

Wicked Cool Wicked Dutch Bike Tour

2009-03-19T18:59:00.010-04:00

We'd like to be a bit verbose in describing and the dope awesomeness and craziness that's been going down this week but that'll be later. Right now all we can say is we love Holland and we love speaking like the dutch. Or at least the Swizz does. And we hope you like the latest bike tour. Amsterdam is a Swizzle kind of town. And we're in second place on this wacky trip.

Swizzle skis in german farmland

2009-03-18T04:39:00.004-04:00

Yep, the Swizzles went skiing in the middle of some wacky German farmland. This contest is crazy. The indoor skiing had real snow and even some snow bunnies. At least the Swizz was in some good company with Ludwig Von Beethoven.

Swizzles avoid runaway truck on steep hill aproaching Marksburg castle in Germany

2009-03-16T21:22:00.002-04:00

So the traveling has begun. We were a bit wacked out by the overnight transatlantic flight, and the fact that we were up and on our way to our first destination/challenge about an hour after touching down in Frankfurt. Yes, folks, Frankfurt, Germany was the jumping off place for our adventure south to check out some castles and some mega mogno go-kart (yep, souped up, un restricted go-karts) track in the Rhine valley. Anyhoo, we were just minding our own business, psyched to be tromping up the pretty steep hill leading to Marksburg castle. Hey, why do they always put the cool castles up these steep hills for anyway? But yea, this place had never been destroyed which is a pretty cool and a big deal in this part of Germany and we we're just taking it all in when.............

Caroline (Frau Swizzle) says" Is that truck starting to roll down the hill?......It is......Hey.........Your truck is roLLING DOWN THE HILL......!!!!!" says safety officer Caroline to the German delivery dudes who don't really run marathons (If you know what I mean). We'll the Herr truck driver may have been a little slow to put together what saftey officer Caroline was saying in her excited, jet lagged english, and he probably isn't inclined to rush to many things, but I'll tell ya, when his his truck starting to carreen down that very steep slope at speeds that were aproaching possible air time at the fast aproaching hairpin turn, Herr truck driver did a jackie owens, carl lewis, and/or other really fast guy impersation that litterally blew our hair back. He was so fast I couldn't even catch him on this short, but very real, clip.

And that was only the begining of this crazy Comptitours challenge. I'd write more if it wasn't 2am and if I didn't have to get up at the crack of early for more challenges. But were having a ball and hope to post more of the fun soon. Frau Swizzle saves the day....again. And the guys at the go-kart track brought their own custom painted helmets like pool sharks bring their own pool cues.

News Flash: Swizzles to compete in an Amazing Race-style race across Europe

2009-03-14T15:58:00.021-04:00

Extra. Extra..Extra...Swizzles to compete in Amazing Race-style race. It's absurd really. Both Swizzles were freed from the corporate shackles at about the same time (cause for celebration). That news alone would have fueled the good vibes for months, but then everything immediately kicked up to ludicrous speed. You see, Frau Swizzle is a genius. She was looking for a way to keep here elite airline status on a frequent flyer chatboard when she read the following headline "Are you a savvy traveller looking for a chance to win an all expenses paid European vacation? Amazing Race-style race looking for contestants. Write a short essay on why you'd like to go."

So, the Swizz was in the car, on his way to NYC to shake some possible job trees when he received an absolutely hysterical voice mail on the seldom used cell phone, "Ahhhhaaaahhhhhaaaahhhhhaaaahhhhaaaahhh. Weeeeeeeee wooooooooon. Ahhhhaaaahhhhhaaaahhhhhaaaahhhhaaaahhh."

That's the deal. We're one of 11 teams that will be running around Europe. The contest is based on "challenges" in each of the countries we visit (don't know where yet) and on our ability to make videos of us doing the challenges. It just sounds like a hoot.

I hope to be posting here. But, with the help of sibling Swizz, we've been able to build www.billyswizzle.com into a real thing. It's live (beta version), has lots of the cool stuff, and I hope will be way more engaging. Check out www.billyswizzle.com and please share thoughts, questions, concerns, or any recipes for chocolate chip cookies you may have.

And if you want to follow the Swizzles progress across Europe log on to http://boardingarea.com/blogs/travelcompetewin/. You'll see The Swizzles are team number 7, as well as lots more info on the contest
(it's called Competitours--www.competitours.)

That's all from Swizzle World Headquarters for now. Please join the Swizzles on our wacky voyage. It's more fun to share. We leave Sunday and then we're off to Singapore and Vietnam to continue with the kookiness.

Hey...Hey...Hey...It's Swizzle's Ultra Historic Bike Tour

2009-03-13T10:50:00.008-04:00

I hope you're all picturing the Fat Albert theme song when you saw the title of this post. Is that awesome bass line and "Learnin' from eachother...........while we do our thing...........NA..NA..NA...Gonna have a good time," running through your heads? just as Bill Cosby told us before every awesome Fat Albert episode, "Join Fat Albert and the Gang for music and fun...and you might just learn something before we're done," that's the deal here. The Swizz embraces all that is good. Music. Painting. Literature. Sculpture. Modern Art. Film. Interpretive dance. History. So, Swizz embarked on the "Ultra-hip, Ultra-cool, ultra-historic bike tour of Revolutionary Massachusetts. Come along with the Swizz as chases Red Coats, and musters with the Minutemen across the New England countryside, and hangs with some literary giants who are all known by three names and threw down some serious transcendental jive.

Swizzle steals from Shepard Fairey @ the ICA

2009-03-06T17:10:00.002-05:00

Man, having time is like Christmas, New Year's, and a back massage all rolled into one luscious thing--with a bow on it. Instead of riding my bike into a toxic inferno of incompetence only to sit in front of a computer screen trying to keep the free form anxiety from splashing on me, the Honey Bunny and yours truly met some of New England's best and brightest at the ICA--that's Institute of Contemporary Art/Boston for those Philistines among us--to revel in each other's company and to swim in all that is groovy, and thought provoking. OK, well, it was not ALL groovy and thought provoking.

Yep, Shepard Fairey got the full monty treatment. Gallery after gallery was filled with all that is hip, and street, and popular, and iconic, and commercial, and did we say iconic already? In a word, it was a homage du Shepard Fairey. And in yet another vivid example of the paradox of life, all the hipness, and streetness, iconicness that garnered ol' Shep the most favored status at the ICA, are the very things that make him and his work, how should we say, a bit pedestrian. No question he does some cool stuff and he's been prolific, but......I don't know......when the viral becomes mainstream that essential luster gets lost in the interviews with Katy Couric and in the endless discussions of the "Work." But it was still all rainbows and unicorns to be playing hooky from the tediousness of the mundane by gazing peacefully across Boston Harbor through acres of glass with the Medfield all-stars. The gift of time is priceless. And happy birthday out there in M-land. Hope you guys had as much fun as we did.

And in the spirit of all that is street, and hip, and viral........the Swizz stole some images from the dude who's been accused of stealing some images. The irony there is that those accusations have only led to his ever increasing fame which by the law of paradox......will eventually lead to footnote status. But maybe it's better to be a footnote than a never was.

Swizzle's Ultra Cool, Ultra Hip bike tour of the crack houses in Cambridge, Massachusetts

2009-03-04T20:24:00.012-05:00

Yep, the bike diary is back. Now, the reason for all the bike riding has changed in the recent past. Amen brotha. You see, the Swizz had been riding his bike into a life-sucking tempest of incompetence and anxiety that was a marvel to behold. It took a force of will just to keep going, day after stupid day. When the word came down, the Swizz felt like that dude who was recently released from Camp X-Ray in Guantanamo Bay. Of course it wasn't anything like that. You know the story about the frog and the boiling water? Swizz was Kermit-the-frog. Thankfully Miss Piggy came and pulled him out before he got scalded. And it continues to be sweet, sweet, sweet.

I rode my bike away from that place about a month ago yet the smile persists. I'm not tiring of the joy that greets me when I wake up knowing I'm free. FREE. I've tried long and hard to find freedom over the years. The meaning has morphed and changed maybe even deepened as I've grown older but it my current freedom is something I wasn't quite prepared for. I've never felt as free or as ready for twists and turns of life as I type these words. Yes, there's a safety in kinda knowing how each day/year is gonna go, but the possibilities of uncertainty are intoxicating.

To Be Continued .............#10

2009-02-27T12:19:00.002-05:00

So………The Road Warrior just sat there, in the only seat his body-less car had, just looking at them. It wasn’t a mean look. Or a leer. Or a sneer. It wasn’t even a human look. More like a wild animal look. Or a fish. You know how a fish eyes look when you’ve caught one and brought it in the boat? There’s no real personality, or humanity, or any real intelligence behind the eyes. Just basic survival instincts. Or surrender. That was the look that Wayne focused on the boys.

“Fellas,” said Gene somewhat nervously. “This here is Wayne. He takes all sorts of cars and breathes them back to life. He may just be able to help you.”

“Hey, Wayne,” said Ebony. “That quite a rig you got there.”

Wayne just spit some vile brown juice through the gaps in his teeth. It made a little dust cloud when it landed there in the dusty area next to the gas station. The silence lingered as long as the little dust cloud.

“Yup, that’s quite a rig. Uhh, you wouldn’t have any cars for sale would ya?”

If they didn’t put it together before being introduced to Wayne, they knew now, Road Warrior Wayne was a man of few words. Maybe he was mute. Or maybe he communicated on a more primal level, like a wild animal. Could he sense the fear? If that was the case, the Swizz was in a heap of trouble.

Another geyser of spit ejaculated out of the gap between Wayne’s brown, broken teeth. Another dust cloud kicked up as the spit sizzled on the warm, dry dirt. The silence was longer than you’d expect from any civilized conversation. The boys collectively and unintentionally held their breath. The dust cloud dissipated and still…….nothing.

Eventually Gene broke the silence, “I think Wayne has a car you boys may be interested in. Don’tcha Wayne?” Gene’s smile was as big as the desert. Not only was he the Sheriff and the Mayor, he was also a used car salesman sporting a used car salesman smile.

Wayne pulled a dirty red bandana out of his back pocket, wiped his face with it, and nodded. All that did was move the dirt around. But at least it removed the moist ring around the slit below Wayne’s nose that was home to his brown, broken teeth. His mouth was watering all right. It was unnerving.

Wayne eventually motioned to Gene. He wanted a word in private.

“Okay fellas,” said Gene. “Why don’t you boys get yourselves some of Eunice’s famous bacon and eggs. I’ll have Wayne pull the car around while you eat.”

“That’s great Gene,” said Angel. “Thanks.”

“What the fuck was that?” Swizzle said as they retreated to the warmth of Delle’s double wide truckers oasis.

“That was the Road Warrior man,” said Angel. “We’ve jumped our way into one crazy place.”

“Who cares?” said Ebony. “We need some way to get outta here. I’m not all that psyched about trying to hitchhike back to Boulder with my croquet set, and my basketball, and the cooler full of PBR’s”

“Yea, man. You got that right,” said Swizz.

Ebony was the most responsible and the most concerned of the three. It was his car that got totaled. He was the guy responsible for filling out the reports and he was gonna have to deal with the insurance. And the Dash-A-Way was his baby and Angel had crashed it.

Eunice sat them down at the counter. She and the whole “restaurant” (consisting of a counter, some Formica table tops, and a couple truck drivers that smelled of diesel fuel and hooker perfume) had heard about the crazy college boys who’d jumped the ditch out on the interstate.

“That was some stunt you boys pulled off,” said Eunice as she poured three coffees and set three paper placemats on the counter.

“We know,” said Angel. “Can’t believe what happened.”

“You boys sure are lucky. The Good Lord must have a plan for you three—delivering you from threshold of death they way he did.”

“Yes Maam,” said the Swizz. He took the God stuff a bit more seriously than Angel and E. They just sort of smiled while the Swizz pondered, “It’s better to be lucky than good.”

Eunice pulled a pen out of her ultra hair sprayed beehive hairdo and adjusted her white apron with the frills running up the sides. “You boys must be starvin’. What can I getcha?”

“Well Maam,” said Angel (even Angel, California Angel, was affected by the God-fearin’ pioneer spirit of Eunice’s place) “We’d plum appreciate some of your famous bacon and eggs that the Sheriff spoke so highly of,” he said with a smile that was both sincere and mocking at the same time.

“Three trucker’s specials. Commin’ right up.”

Eunice subtly adjusted the mustard yellow uniform that hugged her substantial curves as she walked back to the kitchen. The noise that little maneuver made came from the polyester of her uniform rubbing against the polyester of her girdle. The boys couldn’t even venture a guess as to what the thought bubble over her head must have been saying. She may have been trying to entice them. You know, “Help me! Please take me with you, away from Gene and his God-forsaken fiefdom. I’ll make it worth you while (wink, wink as her hands slide seductively down the curve of her hips)” Or maybe the uniform that was one size too small had just ridden up a bit. Gene wouldn’t let her buy a new one because he liked the way the tight polyester pushed her cleavage up into an intoxicating array of flesh and freckles. And he loved the way it jiggled and spilled out when she’d bend over the counter to pour his first cup of coffee in the morning.

“Three truckers Jose,” she said to the faceless Jose behind the griddle.

The boys probably noticed Eunice’s jiggly, freckled cleavage that had been heaped up for Gene’s enjoyment, but only in their peripheral, hormone fueled vision. And the reality of their situation, as they sat at the counter in the Delle’s double, double wide with a view of the gas station out the dirty window occupied a bit more of their attention than their prodigious, desire to copulate with anything with tits and two legs.

“Whoa man. What the fuck is goin on?” said Swizz. “This is crazy. It’s only been about 12 hours since I was just walking down the road on my way to Slippery Pete's.”

“I know,” said Ebony as he put the chipped coffee mug up to his lips. “It’s crazy and it’s all your (smiling and pointing to Angel) fuckin fault.”

“Awww dude, I’m sorry man,” said Angel. “I just fell asleep.”

“I know. Don’t sweat it man. It could have been any of us”

“We were all fucking asleep,” added the Swizz. “You should have seen it. I saw the mile marker disappear beneath the hood, looked over at Angel and he’s sleeping like a fucking baby. We were all sleeping like fuckin’ babies.”

“I know. I know,” said Ebony. “It’s crazy. What are we gonna do now? I can deal with the insurance, and it’s a good thing Gene didn’t ask too many questions.”

“I know man. I heard the handle of Jim Beam clinking around in the back of the car as it was getting towed outa the ditch,” Swizz said with a warble in his voice. “It was like the beating heart in that Edgar Allen Poe story. Clink—clink. Clink—clink. I almost lost my shit. I knew he was gonna find the bottle and then he was goanna start with the “Have you boys been drinkin’? questions, and then we were all goin’ to jail…..where ever that is. And then……

“Swizzle. Chill…the….fuck…out,” said Ebony. “We’re cool. We’re fine. Man…. Chill. We’re okay. All we need is to figure a way outa here.”

“Yea Swizz. It’s cool,” said Angel. “The Gene and the fuckin Road Warrior are gonna come through for us.

“You’re right,” says the Swizz, a little embarrassed that he let some of the fear shine through. “You’re right. I guess I’m a little freaked out by the whole thing. But it’s kinda cool to. This is high adventure man. High adventure.” Did you see how the Swizz shifted between the fear on the inside and his cool guy adventure seeker persona that he worked so hard to project. Did you see it? It only took him three sentences.

“Yea man, It’s cool,” said Ebony. “I called the insurance guy back east. It’s cool. We just need a way of getting’ outa here. How much money you guys got?”

“I’ve got about $100,” said the Swizz.

“Yea, that’s about how much I’ve got,” added Angel.

“Okay. Cool,” said Ebony. “Since my car got totaled, we’ll see what Gene and Wayne come up with and I'll buy it. I’ve got some money and can call back east if we need a little more. All we need is a car that can get us home.”

“Three truckers for my three stunt men,” said Eunice as she approached the counter. She had a big plate filled with runny eggs, crispy bacon, greasy hash browns, and even a parsley garnish in each hand. And the way she cradled the third plate on her forearm, along with multiple servings of toast, jam, jelly, and piles of whipped butter that looked like double dips of ice cream from Ben and Jerry’s, forced the boys to take the full majesty of her jiggly, freckled cleavage in. It was inescapable. They were drawn to it the way the drivers on the interstate were drawn to their recent accident scene. Her approach from the kitchen window was in slow motion just as the crash had slowed down, or as the scene with Phoebe Kates in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” had slowed down. (You know the scene from the 80’s classic movie where Brad is fantasizing about Phoebe in the pool. She gets out of the pool as the sun is shining and some guys off camera spray her with a light mist. Her perfect, nubile, deliciousness dances with the water and the affects of gravity as she climbs out of the pool in a way that approaches perfection.) The cradled plates, tight mustard colored uniform, combined with shock waves that traveling through Eunice’s body as she walked from the kitchen window approached that same horny perfection.

“Thanks Eunice,” said the Swizz. He was thanking her for much more than the runny eggs. And Swizzle’s politeness broke the slo-mo spell.

Meanwhile, Angel glanced out the dirty window.

“Hey, boys……….you’re not gonna believe this.”

To be continued…………….

Swizz has a rocket in his pocket

2009-02-25T13:25:00.004-05:00

Yes, yes, yes. The Swizz is working on To be continued.......#10 as we speak. But it's coffee break time. And that means...... bringing it old school with the best country funk this world has ever seen. These boys lay down a stone groove. A communal heartbeat. OM-----the vibration of the universe with a shuffle beat. Honk if you dig wood block virtuosity and and the bearded dude with the serious pipes. Pipes I say. And oh yea, the Tower of Power horns herald all things good and groovy. Please. Do me and yourselves a favor. Sit back in your offices, cubicles, and otherwise unfunky places and don't even try to resist bopping your head. And oh yea. The Swizz will be rocking the overalls with no shirt at the next mars gig. Striped overalls that is.

To Be Continued..................#9

2009-02-24T14:35:00.002-05:00

So…….

E and the Swizz watched the Utah desert wake up from the relative safety of the tow truck while Angel was riding with the Gene the Law Man in the squad car. “You think he knows?” Swizz said under his breath so the tow guy with the trucker hat (way before trucker hats became LA fashion) and grease under his finger nails couldn’t hear. “Did we tell him that Angel was driving? You think ol’ Gene is playing good AND bad cop?”

“Swizz…..chill, man,” said E out of the corner of his mouth. “He would have done something back at the scene. Just chill.”

“Oh, yea,…. right,” said Swizz trying regain some sort of cool—like he was just making sure. You see, the Swizz was saddled with a baseline of fear. It was always there. The booze and drugs helped a bit, but free form fear was a constant companion. It was embedded in the atoms of his being like protons circling a nucleus. And the fear that they were going to be arrested for underage drunk driving by a Law Man straight out of a western movie paled in comparison to being found out by Ebony and Angel. He was petrified they’d find out that he wets the bed when he gets drunk or that he has to get high in his closet as soon as he gets out of bed in the morning or that his unsolvable problem breaks him a little bit each day. An incredible force of will and his best thinking constantly creates the character that they and the whole world see.

“That was some kinda stunt you guys pulled off back there,” said the tow truck guy who looked like Cooter from the Dukes of Hazard TV show.

“Yea, it was crazy,” said the Swizz. “I saw the water on the windshield but it just didn’t make any sense.”

“What are you boys gonna do now?”

“Don’t know,” added Ebony. “The car’s totaled so I guess we’ll have to catch a bus or a train or something.”

“Well, you should talk to Gene. He’s the mayor of town and I bet he could help you boys out.”

“Cool, we’ll do that. Is there a place to get some food? All this car jumping has made me hungry. And where are you bringing us?”

“Delle, Utah, and yep, there’s a restaurant. We’re almost there.”

The boys just gazed off at the mountains in the distance from the tow truck’s squeaky spring bench seat as Jethro hauled their crumpled car back to a place called Delle, Utah. Ebony fumbled with the bowl that had thankfully gone out, but was still lodged uncomfortably in his underwear, while Swizz just stared. It wasn’t long before and exit off the highway appeared and they were rolling into “town,” (town is in quotes like you make with your fingers when irony or sarcasm is intended). Delle, Utah, consisted of two double wide trailers that’d been welded together (restaurant) and a gas station. That was it. Turns out Law Man Gene was the “Mayor”….. of a “Town”…… that was nothing more than a highway exit truck stop. Man, talk about a big fish in a small pond. Is it possible to have a pond without water? Did Gene grow up in Delle and look around when he was a kid and say with his arms outstretched “One day, this is all goanna be mine?” I think he did. And dang gum it, he made it happen.

Big fishes and small ponds were swimming through Swizzle’s mind when the truck to squeaked to a stop off to the side of “Town.”

Gene and Angel were already there.

“We’re starvin’ Gene,” said Angel. “Me and the boys wanna get something to eat.”

“Well,” says Gene. “Eunice over there (as Gene points to the double, double-wides that form 50% of his fiefdom) cooks the meanest bacon and eggs you’ll find.”

“That’s great.”

Meanwhile Ebony had limped over to the meeting of the minds. “Hey, Gene. You wouldn’t know where we could find a cheap car would ya? We got way too much crap to hitchhike with--oops sorry, hitchhiking is illegal isn’t it?” Ebony said with a quizzical smile. “Uhh, I mean, you guys don’t sell cars do ya?”

It was at that very moment. The very moment when the boys had touched down on the firm, arid soil of Delle, Utah. The very moment when the ridiculousness of their situation (right down to taking a full croquet set on a camping trip) had begun to sink in. It was about 9 AM. They were about 500 miles from home and about 500 miles from their destination. They’d slept through a car jump they’d all participated in, escaped without a scratch (except for Ebony’s ankle), and were seemingly getting away with underage, drunk driving again. The adrenaline and the dope had worn off just enough to allow them to contemplate next steps. Or more like allowed Ebony and Angel to formulate a plan for moving forward. The Swizz was caught between worrying if Ebony knew that he had smoked some of his dope as he drove last night, or if he could con the cute girl with the blonde hair into liking him (and maybe even some drunken sex) if they ever made it back to Boulder. It was at that very moment when the Road Warrior pulled up.

The boys were busy pondering their predicament and talking to Gene as the dust cloud from the Road Warrior’s desert machine came closer and closer to town. His appearance in “Town” came as a bit of a shock to all, except Gene of course. It’s hard to determine what had a greater impact on the boys—the man—or the rig he pulled up on. I guess the “car” caught their attention because it was so otherworldly. It was simply right out of the Mad Max movie that launched that Aussie actor’s career, what was his name, oh ya, Mel Gibson.

Yep, the buggy that the Road Warrior pulled up on, could have easily been the jitney that the head bad guy drove in the movie. You know, the car/truck/desert buggy that the bad guy drove. It was all done up for road wars (kinda like the chariots Charleston Heston raced around ancient, pre-biblical Roman arenas) and the bad guy was so bad he’d tied some of the settlers he’d taken hostage and tortured to the front of his war wagon. They were screaming, and had been shot with arrows out of a crossbow, and were bleeding, and were tied to the front of the bad guy's car as the bad guys attacked the desert oasis that had the gasoline in the movie. Desert. gasoline. Oassis. The parallels were staggering. The Road Warrior pulled up on a sled that was similar to what was in the movie that started Mel Gibson’s trajectory from unknown Aussie, to movie star, to People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive”, to some crazy dude who makes anti-Semitic comments with a red face and veins bulging out of his forehead.

And the dust was still settling as this modern day Road Warrior sat behind the wheel of his machine that was skeletal in its internal combustion efficiency; eyeing the wrecked car on the back of the tow truck like a lion looks at a fresh kill. The war wagon lacked anything that didn’t contribute to propulsion. There was no body, no windshield, no upholstery on the single seat (there were no other seats) no paint, nothing. It was what happens to a car in an automotive slasher movie. Skin ripped away only to reveal the pain and vulnerability of a beating, 6-cylander heart.

The drivers mouth was watering. The boys could tell this because his dust covered face was dark and moist around the mouth. He sort of smiled when he saw the car and the funny looking college boys talking to Gene. The half smile revealed brown, broken teeth. His hair was caked with mud like the indigenous tribes of Papua New Guinea adorn themselves with before sending their adolescent boys off to complete rights of passage alone in the jungle. His plaid shirt once had long sleeves that appeared to have been bitten off, or shorn with a dull knife. His arms were as scrawny as they were dirty. His pants were threadbare.

The dust settled. The war wagon idled. Everyone stopped talking.

To be continued…………….

To Be Continued...................#8......finely

2009-02-21T22:46:00.004-05:00

Swizzle note--A thousand apologies for the delay in getting back to the boys and the car with the bingo sticker. Life has twisted, turned, and flipped, and cranked up to 11 since To Be Continued....... #7 was published in late January. There's been lotsa excellent stuff that's well served to the Swizzle-cam, but I'm feeling that some narrative has some legs as well. Actually, I want to do more of everything. And that's just what I'm gonna do. So, without further ado, we now return you to your regularly scheduled Swizzle broadcast.........

So……….

The Swizz and the boys were taken a little off guard. They were still trying to piece together what happened. Just watching the sky get lighter and lighter as the sun chased the stars away, passing Ebony’s dope around, and pondering the hissing, leaking, crumpled car with the Bingo bumper sticker, when the tall, bowlegged white guy appeared to be coming towards them like he’d just pushed those swinging saloon doors like you see in the old westerns open. The light caught his belt buckle and gave Ebony just enough warning to jam the still lit bowl and the bag of weed down his pants. It’s a conditioned survival response (like the Swizz trying to stall for time with Stain back in episode #2) and it’s damn lucky he did. The rodeo escapee who was walking towards them was obviously some kinda law man. They couldn’t see the tin sheriff’s badge pined on the chest of his brown western shirt, but they could smell a pig from a mile away. Ebony suffered some singed short hairs as the still smoldering bowl settled in--a little to close to the bone, but jamming both hands in his pockets kept the smell of burning pubic hairs to a minimum, and the boys stood to attention even though none of them had been in the military

“What the fuck has gone on here, boys?” said the law man. “What in the Sam Hill did you fellas do?”

“I think we just jumped that river in the car,” said Angel.

“Well why would you want an’ go and do a thing like that?”

“Just happened.”

“Are any of you boys hurt? That car looks like its just been dropped from the sky.”

“Well, Ebony here seems to have hurt his ankle a bit, but we’re alright.”

“I ain’t never seen anybody walk away from a car that looks like that. The ambulance should be here any minute. A little old lady saw you boys in mid air and we called for the ambulance as soon as she took a breath from sayin’ “Sheriff, you’re not going to believe what I just saw on the Interstate.”

The boys relaxed a bit as the Sheriff continued to slap his thigh and say stuff like—“You boys are the luckiest boys I’ve ever seen,” and “I told the ambulance driver to bring the body bags,” and “I thought we’d have to clean you boys up with a paper towel.”

“It was the craziest thing sir. First we were in the air, and then there’s water over the windshield, and then were in the air again,” says the Swizz. He’d just been sitting on the guard rail as the local constable with the tin badge and belt buckle to match kicked out wild west law man banter.

“Hey son”, says the sheriff. “What the fuck kind of name is Ebony? As a matter of fact, I’m gonna need all your names. I don’t need to do a fatality report, but I damn sure need to file an accident report. One of the craziest fucking accidents I’ve seen patrolling his stretch of road. Should I put that in the report?” he said with a knowing smile. “One of the craziest fucking things I’ve ever seen?”

The boys gave their names, another patrol car and the ambulance and the tow truck showed up, and traffic slowed down to see what was going on in that drainage ditch. The crystalline light of the wee hours gave way to the high desert morning. As the reality of what they’d just done set in, and as Gene, the law man was called Gene, (Angel asked him his name when he was jotting Angel’s down). As soon as formal introductions were underway, their relationship with Gene changed. He was no longer the lawman who had to clean dead bodes off this stretch of highway so early in the morning. He was so intrigued by the weird looking college kids who’d jumped the river with nary a scratch that he didn’t even think to perform his law man like duties (like searching the car for booze and drugs).

The Swizz distinctly remembered hearing the ½ full handle of Jim Beam they’d been pulling on hours before clinking in the back seat as they rumbled on the shoulder seconds before launching into the abyss. The Swizz was intimately familiar with the sound, and hiding booze and drugs, and drunkenness and drugdness from cops when he’d been pulled over for various infractions. Gene would have only have to poke around the car to see that maybe the “accident” had some extenuating circumstances.

But he didn’t. It appeared he was genuinely happy that the boys had come out in good shape the way a father would feel if he realized his sons and some of their friends had had a close one. The paperwork was one thing (and lets face it, his beat was hardly Hells Kitchen), but the sense of “oh my God I can’t believe we’re all in one piece” was shared by everybody. And to a man and woman (one of the EMT’s was a woman), the reaction was the same. Disbelief and then a sense of wonder, like—God has spared these boys. We were in cowboy Christian country after all. Amen to that.

The EMT’s pronounced Ebony’s ankle as sprained. “It’s a family name, sir,” said Ebony in response to Gene’s earlier question. “It’s my great, great, great grandfathers name. He fought in the war.”

“Oh yea,” says Gene. “Which one?”

“The revolution.”

“No shit?...You boys are some bona-fied Yankees aren’t ya.”

“No sir,” says Angel. “I’m from California. These uptight east coast dudes are crazy.”

Gene cocked his head a bit. You could see the wheels turning in his mind. And then he just smiled a smile as big as the salt flats. “Now that’s the first smart thing I’ve heard any of you college boys say.” And they just laughed and laughed like they were all in on the joke.

The laughter was part giddy from the reality of the situation but mostly it was just a result of the dope they’d smoked. They were luck and stoned and no idea of what to do next.

“Where were you boys headed before the Evil Kenevil maneuver?

“California,” says Angel. ‘We were planning to do some camping in Yosemite.”

“Oh, yea?” says Gene as he propped a well worn cowboy boot on the broken bumper with the bingo sticker and just glances into the back of the crumpled car. “Your travel plans just took a serious turn son. And what in Sam Hill are you going to do with a basketball in Yosemite? Who the fuck brings a basketball on a camping trip?”

The wrecker arrived shortly after the ambulance. There was no question that the car was totaled. It wasn’t really worth anything before it was totaled, but it at least was able to carry them and all their stuff (including the damn basketball) before the launch. Now they were in the middle of nowhere, with no real way to get out. What were they to do? Jump a freight train headed west? Who’d carry the cooler and the beach chairs? They couldn’t really hitchhike either.

“All right, you two go in the wrecker,” says father Gene. “And you, California, you’re coming with me in the squad car. We’re going into town.”

To be continued…………..

Steamboat Swizzle: High Plains Drifter

2009-02-19T10:52:00.006-05:00

So there are several to be continued threads unravelling, and change is a constant companion, but the goodness is flowing like the River Styx into the mythical center of all being. Swizzle's World Tour bus has criss-crossed this great land like Kerouac all amped up on speed. Uppers, downers, speedballs and freebases were nowhere to be found, but we did find adrenaline pumping adventure that induced quiet contemplation as well as elevated heart rates and a surplus of spontaneous laughter. So if any of you cool cats are wondering what a modern high plains drift is like, check the following video out. Drifting across the Rockies is way better than hanging in a cubicle. And lets hear from you folks at home. I'm still hoping to shine the spotlight on some guest bloggers here. Any and all submissions will be featured like an Oscar winning movie at an art house. We all have an alter ego. We're all interested to see what happens when he or she gets out.

Dateline: Steamboat Springs, Colorado

2009-02-13T08:38:00.001-05:00

Swizzle's World Tour bus has pulled into Steamboat Springs, Colorado. And the last time the latent Swizz was here, he almost got arrested. I guess you can say we've returned to the scene of the crime. It was nothing serious. I was on my way back from California-- driving back to Boulder after a week spent in the hills outside Santa Cruz. My days consisted of smoking nucular powered northern California weed, surfing with guys that said "go back to the valley, man" on a regular basis, and writing. But when it came time to head back, my finances didn't jibe with the requirements of the 1000 mile overland journey. I had a grand total of 20 dollars so, creativity was required. First stop was the local grocery store. I stole a bottle of vodka (there was no money for the pot I preferred) so I'd be sufficiently lubed up for the solitary miles that awaited me on the road. The store manager was on to me and made sure I never went back to his store again as he walked me out with a firm grip on my arm. But I made it out with the bottle, and he didn't have to worry, I was never going to steal from his store again. I was never going back.

Next stop was the gas station. My diesel VW Rabbit was a fuel economy superstar, but it still needed fuel, and the kid needed to make his 20 dollars last so…….I stole a full tank (10 gallons) of diesel from a busy gas station. This was in the days before you had to put your credit card into the pump to get the fuel flowing. The criminal mastermind's plan was elegant in its simplicity. Pull up to an outer pump (that was hidden from the view of the clerk inside by a pick up truck at the inner pump), leave the car running, fill the tank, control the nerves, increased heartbeat, and thoughts of getting caught, put the cap back on, and drive away.

My eyes were glued to the rear-view mirror for 100's of miles after that brilliant piece of criminal handy work. At any moment, a police car was going to speed up behind my conspicuously dented, filthy, rusted car with a spider webbed windshield and force me to pay my debts to society from a cell in a two stoplight town in eastern California. The vodka burned my chest and calmed my nerves (or maybe just helped me realize just how Kerouackian I really was. It was okay if I was stealing and drinking and living way above the prison of society the way Kerouac would have done).

The long arm of the law never came. I just kept driving, and driving across the lonely plains between the Sierras and the Rockies. Just kept driving and drinking and thinking and writing. You see, to pass the time and to make sure I didn't forget any of the "brilliance" of the voyage, I wrote as I drove. Using my right leg on the gas pedal, and steering with my knee, gave me both arms to hold the notebook and pen required for writing at 65 MPH. I wrote and drove and wrote and drove and as the miles slipped past and the notebook pages turned, I stopped looking in the rear view mirror of the road, and fell deeper and deeper into the black hole in the rear view mirror of my life.

I'd made it through a good chunk of a notebook when the signs reporting that Salt Lake City (yes the same Salt Lake City from the To Be Continued episodes, but this is a different trip. Please forgive the jumping around but I promisee it'll all make sense later) was 10 miles east came into view. And since this was an adventure (not a mere road trip) I decided to take the exit for the more rural 2 lanes of Route 40 rather than the boring expanse of interstate that I-70 represents. So I wrote and drove, and wrote and drank up to the Steamboat Springs City limits. It was on the western edge of Steamboat, not far from where I'm writing these words now, where the run in with the law that'd I'd feared in Santa Cruz, occurred. I don't know if I'd become cocky or complacent. But I was doing 65 in a 50 outside of town. Maybe I didn't even know I was coming into town. But when the lights showed up in my rear view mirror..................

you guessed it.........To be continued

Camden, Maine's National Toboggan Championship

2009-02-08T15:49:00.010-05:00

When it was said that last week was the launch pad to all the awesomeness of the future, who could have known how prophetic that statement really was. BLASTING OFF is simply what's happening. As you'll see in this video from the National Toboggan Championship this weekend, Team Swizzle literally blasted out of the gate and down the chute at nearly terminal velocity. If you've ever wondered what it's like to go from 0 to about 40 miles an hour in a blink of an eye, and then to be shot out on to a frozen lake, join Team Swizzle in the toboggan as we race down the chute in this next clip. We already know that this was the start of a yearly tradition, so if you want to be part of the action next year, stay tuned. Slots on Swizzle's sled next year are sure to fill up fast.

Swizzle's Ultra-hip, Ultra-cool NYC Bike Tour

2009-02-06T10:08:00.007-05:00

Right on. Right on. RIGHT ON.
The Swizz has been on the road for the last couple days, and it's safe to say..... if all that's gone down in the last week represents the launch pad (the countdown if you will), the Swizz's recent 2 day World Tour of Newport, Rhode Island, and the New York Island signal BLAST OFF. We have blasted off people. Absolutely BLASTED OFF. NYC was fantastically fertile territory for a bike diary, so yet again, I'm continuing To Be Continued......#8 for another day. So just sit back, put your feet up, and come along for the ride on Swizzle's Ultra-Hip, Ultra-cool NYC Bike Tour.

The Unbearable Awesomeness of Possibilty

2009-02-04T05:59:00.007-05:00

I was going for an after school special/self help/melodramatic sort of title for this post and dang-gum it, I think I achieved my objective. But the truth is the possibilities are pumping like blood through my veins when I put the hammer down on the bike. And new things seem to be popping up all over the place now that we've been freed from the place I used to work. That's a round about way of trying to justify the fact that Swizzleposts that were pumping out with pulse-like regularity have fallen into more scatter shot regularity.

There are lots of To Be Continueds cued up, but since I rode the bike back from the place that I'm so glad to be rid of, I've been occupied with: copious emails and phone calls while sitting in front of the fire as the snow falls, Swizzle recorded 11 songs in 11 hours with MARS at Galaxy Studios (of course MARS records its first LP in a studio called Galaxy,,,,I'm not making that up) and simply reveling in the fact that the bigger, better, and much more funner things that the Swizz has been waiting for (and knew would arrive) are here. I'll be heading down to NYC to do some due diligence for a deal we've been working on to start a new company. The idea is sound. The team is in place. And all we need to do is put the hammer down and execute.

Wondrous things are afoot. I'll be posting a bike diary from my adventures in NYC, and if you're wondering who the guy with the dime store aviators, cowboy hat, and big ol' belt buckle from To Be Continued.....#7 is, please stay tuned. All will be revealed.

MARS: BEHIND THE MUSIC

2009-02-01T13:23:00.010-05:00

Yes, a couple Swizzleblog enthusiasts are reporting that the verbose verbosity of recent posts is maybe, how do you say, a little verbose? So with the spirit of brevity and entertainment lighting our way through the darkness, the Swizz is taking a one day field trip back to the days of one paragraph posts with video accompaniment. Now it's hard to condense 11 straight hours in the recording studio down to a two minute clip, (actually it's not that hard at all) but here we go.

Again, To be continued #8 has been pushed back a day. We're just visiting one paragraph/video land for one day and we'll be back to the verbosity in short order.

To Be Continued...........#7

2009-01-29T21:16:00.004-05:00

So..................

The Dash-a-way touched down for the final time—a frame bending, engine crunching, flat tire spinning, fluid spurting, glass breaking, dashboard hitting, stop, then………Nothing.
No birds chirping, or water gurgling, or even the road noise you’d expect to hear by the side of a major interstate, except for the blinker.

Click….click….click….click.

Obviously, they were hell bent for bingo, and you’d better get out of the way, but they weren’t so discourteous as to neglect signaling their inadvertent intentions while sleep driving. Click, click, click. “We’re taking a right people,” says the click, click, click. “We’re going right, and up, and down, and up, and down and over the other side, and there’s nothing we or you can do to stop us.”

The click was rhythmically clicking away while Angel, Ebony, and the Swizz sat motionless where they’d been tossed. Angel ended up over by the Swizz in a funky position, the Swizz was kinda in his seat but the angle of the car forced him up against the window that’s he’d been sleeping against about 10 seconds prior. The whole fucked up car jump only took about 10 seconds to go down. But they didn’t realize they’d just jumped a 75 foot wide kinda dry riverbed in the middle of the Utah salt flats at that moment. They just waited where they ended up. Ebony who’d been thrown around like a rag doll in the back seat was the one to break the utter silence of the moment. “What the fuck just happened?” the creature from the crap cocoon said softly.

“Ohhhhhhhh,” said the Swizz.

“Woahhhh,” added Angel.

Then they started to shift around a bit. Angel pulled his face and his left shoulder out of the space between the broken windshield and the dashboard right above the ash tray and the radio and turned the blinker off. Swizz pushed away from the door with his right arm and did a slow 360 of the surroundings. Ebony kinda grunted "Errrrrrrrg,” as he tried to extricate himself from all the tennis racquets, and basketballs, and beer cans, and 1 inch thick camping pads, and the handle of Jim Beam that had been clinking around on the floor back there (and didn’t break in the crash). They all just looked at each other in utter disbelief.

There were a lots of whooooooas” and “dudes” and “are you okays?” and surprisingly, neither the Swizz or Angel seemed to have suffered even a scratch. How is that possible? Arms moved. Necks swiveled. Knees bent. There was some soreness but, everything seemed to check out. Ebony, however seemed to have jammed his foot between the front seat and the door frame. He was able to pull it out with a couple more grunts, but it was all fucked up. He knew it.

So, both Angel and the Swizz started to work on the doors. Swizz soon realized that since the car was sorta embedded in the weird riverbed soil at a funky angle, he wasn’t gonna be able to get his door open. He thought about rolling down the window and trying to get out that way, but it just seemed easier to crawl across and get out the passenger door. Angel had been able to crunch it open with a well timed lunge. Angel had flopped out on to the muddy/dusty bank next to the car, and the Swizz was out next.

“Grrrrr, my foot is all fucked up,” Ebony said. Angel went to work on the drivers seat. He pushed it as far forward as he could so the E-train could get out of the car and join the land of the living.

“Whaa just happened?” queried the Swizz.

“I think we just jumped that river,” said Angel looking first at the crumpled Dasher and then back, up over the bank along the cars trajectory. “I think we just logged some major fuckin’ airtime, dude.”

Ebony said, “What the fuck? Last thing I remember is I’m asleep, and then there’s all this water coming up through the floor. What? The? Fuck? We are some lucky ass dudes.”

The Swizz didn’t really know what to say. He was obviously in shock, like they all were, and bouncing a head off the dashboard never leads to MENSA-like thought processes, so he just sort of walked around. Looked at the car. Looked were he thought they came from and where they ended up. But it just didn’t make any sense. The bank of the mostly dry riverbed was high enough to obscure the shallow water or the river/culvert as well as the other side. There’s no way that that car in that spot was driving down the road not 10 seconds before. Just no fuckin’ way. And not because the car was so horribly mangled, (it was bad but not jaws-of-life bad), it was so impossible to fathom because there were no tracks, no broken fences, no tell tale signs of where the car came from and how it could have possibly ended up in such a position. It just looked like it’d just been dropped on the inclined side of that river from a crane.

“This is not fuckin’ possible,” was all the Swizz could muster. “I need a bong hit and a cigarette. Anybody care to join me?

“Yep.” in stereo.

“I’ll get the weed,” said Ebony. And in spite of the fact that they’d just cheated death/ major injury, and that there’d never be a more fitting and relatively socially acceptable time to get full on wasted than after a spectacular crash, AND in spite of the fact that they were all a little giddy from the adrenalin and that both Angel and Ebony liked to party almost as much as the Swizz did, the Swizz was afraid.

He was afraid that he’d be found out that he was smoking Ebony’s weed while they all slept last night. He was afraid that they’d think he was the looser who had to. He was afraid that they’d find out the truth. That he needed to the drugs and the beers and the booze. He needed them. He needed to be high on something to get through the day, every day. He’d smoke anything he could get his hands on. He’d smoke the resin from straining bong water through a coffee filter if he had to (and he often did). He was just starting to realize that not everybody did the things he did, but he did believe that everything would be cool if nobody found out. So it didn’t matter that he was with his friends, and that he’d quit his job, and was Goin’ to California, and they’d just had the closest of calls. All he could think of was how bad he wanted to smoke Ebony’s pot and how scared he was of being found out.

“I think it’s in the astray,” said Swizz doing his best to portray a devil-may-care attitude.

So Angel and the Swizz sat in the dirt gazing at the wreckage. Of course both seemed to be cool to watch Ebony hobble over to the car and dig through the crap that’d been thrown in the front seat in his search for the bag and the pipe, in spite of his injury. Angel was just shaking his head. Sounds of cars off in the distance became apparent and the sunrise had gone from the inky darkness of first light to a luminescent blue. The stars were still twinkling, twinkling, but the sun was on its inevitable quest to wash them out.

“Found it,” said E.

“Yea, boiiy” said Angie.

They passed the pipe and all came into and went out of focus again. They were all okay. The sun was rising and those arid flatlands outside of Salt Lake city became more beautiful and colorful with each hit of Ebony’s pipe. He got it in Vermont and it was made out of a piece of deer antler or something like that. The weed burned the back of Swizz’s throat. But he was cool with that. And it burned as he coughed the smoke out his nose, but he was cool with that too. He was descending into the vibrating world of Kerouac, and Jackson Pollack, and Jack London, and Thoreau with each cough and hack. He was privy to a strange dialogue and grateful to be transported away from his self.

“It was the weirdest fucking thing,” says the Swizz. “I opened my eye just before one of those metal reflective mile markers went under the hood. And then I look over at you (nodding over to Angel) and you’re fucking sleeping like a baby behind the wheel. You actually looked comfortable. We’re doin’ 80 miles an hour and every fuckin one of us is asleep. How crazy is that?”

Then Ebony heard tires crunching on the road side gravel and saw the tall guy with the mustache, dime store aviators, and a cowboy hat, walking straight for them………………..

To be continued……………………….

Kick out the Jams....Mother Fuc%ka

2009-01-28T15:30:00.009-05:00

The Swizz is Kickin' out the Jams.....Mother Fuc%ka. He's just kickin' those Mother Fuc%kin' Jams out. The raw Jam Kickin' vibe of the MC5 often plagues the Swizz. In Whole Foods...........Kick out the Jams...Mother Fuc%ka. In the dentist office leafing through SAIL magazine.........Kick 'em out. In the post office..........Kick out the Jams...yea. At the sushi place. "Uhh I'll have a spicy tuna, and a crazy, and caterpillar roll and.........Kick out the jams........Motha Fuc%ka. The MC5 are soul brothers to a whole legion of Jam Kickers who simply Kick out the Jams. The Swizz is just one of many Mother Fuc%kin' Jam kickers. To be continued #7 appears tomorrow.

To Be Continued...........#6

2009-01-27T13:10:00.002-05:00

It was a subtle thing. There really wasn’t anything in particular that aroused him from the dead-to-the-world/drooling-on-the-window sleep. Maybe the hum of the tires changed slightly. He just opened his eye milliseconds before one of those reflective mile markers went “phifffft” beneath the hood of the car. “What a weird sound.” thought Billy “Super Genius” Swizzle. He turned to Angel. “Huhh?” was all the ill formed thought bubble above his semi-conscious head could muster. Angel was full-on head bobbin, eyes shut, easy even breathing……sleeping. The little cherub was utterly relaxed, like he was laying on a lumpy futon perched on a floor littered with climbing gear and Mexican blankets………. THWACK…………………

The car was pointing straight up. Swizz saw stars and was thrown back in his seat (after the initial shock of bouncing his head off the cracked vinyl dashboard). These were not the cartoon stars that one often uses to illustrate cranial bell ringing, no-sir-re-bob, he saw stars, constellations, planets, the sky—the high plains sky just as dawn was dawning. Not the off to the horizon sky. Swizz’s left eye was peering out the windshield straight up to the apex of the sky. The top of the sky. The blackest, darkest, bluest part of the night—ink black and deep, deep blue, punctuated with thousands of twinkle, twinkle, little stars. The boys seemed to hover, weightless, like high school kids on a warm summer night laying on the hood of somebodies parent’s car—stargazing and grooving on unfettered possibility in between bouts of angst.

And then heads bounced off the dashboard…..again….. and the windshield went dark with……brown, muddy water?

And the car was airborne again. Not as high as it was before. But high enough to push the boys back in their seats…..again…..and to provide another, somewhat blurry view of the sky. Basic physics explains they were moving through space faster than X-volume of water can drain completely off a Y-sized windshield in sandy sheets and gritty little rivulets. The grit seems to have added friction, hence, slower draining (and blurrier visibility) than if the water had been cold, clear, and mountain-streamy.

Swizz was still pondering the sound of the mile marker, and the sky, and the weird stuff on the windshield as the arc of the second launch reached it’s apogee and started its decent. The weight of the engine was pulling the Dash-a-Way, down, down to earth. The horizon sorta came into view through the freshly dirty water washed windshield, but the car’s trajectory seemed to turn in on itself. The front of the car was continuing on down and around. It was starting to flip, end-over-end like a football that gets downed on the 1-yard-line of a playoff game in the snow. Swizz had put enough together at this point so that his reflexes were activated. (Now back when the Swizz was an ultra cute, curly toe-headed 5-year old, his Mom told him that the doctor was very impressed with his reflexes, “That boy has the sharpest reflexes I’ve ever seen,” said Dr. Robb as he sat back in his leather chair and re-packed his pipe full of Borkum Riff. “He’s got the reflexes of a quarterback.” Needless to say, Dr Robb always had the sweet smelling aura of pipe smoke. Didn’t he know that smoking is hazardous to your health? Mom just beamed. “I know. He’s special.”)

He was braced for something. Just didn’t know what. Were they going ass over tea kettle? Would all the Pabst Blue Ribbons in the fridge-sized cooler now become lethal projectiles? Would Ebony and his crap cocoon shoot through the windshield like he’d been launched from a medieval catapult? What does Angel think of all this? Should he put his arm up on the ceiling? None of them were wearing any seat belts and he needed to contend with the G’s of the decent, so he just kinda went with it. His “reflexes” told him with the lightning quick neurological acumen of a chemical reaction that, he’d bounced his head off the cracked vinyl dashboard twice now, so maybe bracing against the dashboard would be advisable. And then…………………

To be continued……………

It's a family affair

2009-01-25T20:37:00.009-05:00

MARS put on a gig for about 75 kids (and parents) today. There was singing along, there was a bit of MARS, and unlike at other gigs, there were a few emotional tears as well. The next couple of To be continued's are ready, but this ultra precious video has to take precedent. Make sure to check out the awesome violin solo at about the 2:00 mark. If you're interested in what caused the Swizz to open his left eye in the Dash-a-Way back on the road, please tune in tomorrow. But for now, just check out the Brown family Band (Chloe, Lydia, and Daddy Devin). Oh the Love.

To be continued …………#5

2009-01-23T18:39:00.004-05:00

So………

The boys started out, engulfed in the euphoria of the road. No doubt somebody, probably Ebony, pulled the beat up cassette (with “Alpine Meadows 82” scrawled on the little white label that came with blank cassettes back when people made “mix tapes” and “bootlegs”) out of the glove compartment, and no doubt, the warbling guitar licks, and the liquid-esque bass riffs of Jerry, Phil and the boys vibrated through the Dash-a-Way like the distant echo of a big music festival in the sky. Meanwhile, the party-down atmosphere from the living room of the house on the hill was simply moving up the road. Transported to a confined and somewhat smelly metal box with a dirty windshield, broken headlight, bad shocks, and a load of crap that would make even the certifiable hoarder jealous. You know, like the guy they find in an apartment in the East Village that has kept/hoarded everything from gum wrappers to used tissues since 1972 in his tiny, 400 sq foot apartment. He’s just afraid to let anything, any piece of his “self,” go. It gets so bad, the dense, floor to ceiling piles eventually seal off his escape. He’s wedged, trapped, cornered, in the apartment blocked up with “his self”, until the sticky-sweet smell alerts the neighbors.

Okay, so…..it wasn’t quite like that. But the ol’ V-dub chugged up through the Eisenhower tunnel and down the other side, and it was all down hill from there, kinda.

“Oh Swizz you’re gonna dig it,” says Angel as he turns around to face the Swizz in the back seat.

Ebony behind the wheel is transfixed by the headlights on the other side of the highway and is keeping his eyes pealed for the “pigs,” but in a half-ass way. Truth is, he has that far-away stare and probably wouldn’t notice the “screws” (none of them would really) even if they had their lights on.

“Yeah man, you’re gonna dig the valley and we’re gonna hit the beach in Santa Cruz. Man it’s gonna be good.”

“I’ve never been west of the Missip--,” says Billy (Marco Polo) Swizzle. “I’m jonesin’ for the ocean.”

Ebony chimes in, “I gotta pee.”

“Yea, me too,” says the Swizz. “These beers are running through me like I’m sportin’ a colostomy bag. Let’s pull over. I’ll drive”

They were all well versed in rest stop—stopping. Microwave burritos were microwaved, gas was pumped, pisses were peed, and with the Swizz behind the wheel, they pulled back on to the on ramp with a spinal cord wrenching, Ka-balm. Swizz neglected to avoid a deep, angular and highly avoidable pot hole.

“Damn, Swizz. I think that crater you just hit broke my back,” Ebony wheezes with clenched teeth. “Ah man, you’re not driving for more than 10 seconds and I need fuckin’ traction.”

“Oh Dude,” says the sheepish and smiling Swizz. “Oh man. And I totally could have missed that pothole. Good thing the Dash-a-Way has these awesome shocks.”

“Watch out world, here comes the Swizz,” says “Mr. two cents” VonRosenvinge. “Outa our way, we’re headin to BINGOOOOOOOOOO.”

The riveting discourse continued…….on into the night.

And the miles ticked off. E-bone and “Mr. two cents” eventually drifted off like angelic school children swaddled in their cribs by loving adoptive parents. Ebony adjusted the stuff in the back to form a sort of crap cocoon, while Angel just put his head back and zonked in the passenger seat. Every once in a while he’d start snoring and the Swizz would shake him until it stopped. He never woke up, just shifted around in the seat.

The Swizz drove and jonesed, and it wasn’t just the ocean that he was jonesn’ for. He was ready for some of Ebony’s pot that was carelessly stashed with a pipe in the ashtray. He didn’t want to seem like the looser who smokes his buddies pot while driving his buddies car while said buddy is sleeping in a crap cocoon in the back. He didn’t want to be one of those guys who “parties” by himself. He didn’t want to have the boys look down on him and think “Are you stoned again?” But when the last of the bad truck-stop coffee was polished off with a cigarette, the idea bubble over his head said “fuck it”. So he steered with his knee, and smoked as quietly as he could, taking care to blow the smoke out the window. He wasn’t fooling anybody. And he WAS that guy that smokes his buddies pot in the middle of the night by himself, but only a few beats later, the whole Kerouac-ness of the trip----the adventure, the road, and the mesmerizing lines on the road replaced the self recrimination he toiled so hard to cover up, with the dramatic, romantic, wonder of an “explorer”, a “metaphysical mariner”, a “Dharma Bum”.

More like covered it up. But that was cool none the less. So the initial euphoria of starting out had already devolved into routine. Eat, smoke, sleep, drive. Swizz reveled in the peace and quiet of driving across country in the middle of the night. “I was just going to the store to buy some cigarettes,” he thought as he shook his foggy head and the lines of the road worked their magic while the car floated between them.

It was about 4AM when he realized that he’d woken up in a different lane than the one he started in. Then he realized that he woke up….. from sleeping…., and he was like…driving. Not good. Ebony stirred a bit as the tires crunched the gravel of Perry’s Gas-N-Ass, but he wasn’t on deck to drive.

“Yo, tex. I’m falling asleep here,” said the Swizz who was sorry to wake Angel but proud of being so “responsible”. “You’re up”

It didn’t take too long. “Yea, OK.” said Angel. He shook the sleep out of his head and ran his hands through his hair. It stood up in all sorts of crazy directions but he got the roving program moving again. There’s wasn’t much need for talk and Angel was able to avoid the inevitable bottoming out of the shocks, so E-Bone continued on with his angelic sleeping in the crap cocoon. Swizz had a date with Mr. Sandman as well.

The music got a little louder, and cruising speed got a little faster, and they were--moving. They talked about California and all the stuff the Swizz was gonna love, and school, and women, and what happened a week ago. But it didn’t last long. The Swizz did his best to make himself comfortable in the passenger seat. He used a vest for a pillow and wrapped his arms around his chest and fell asleep in spite of the radio and Angel’s banter.

It seemed like he’d slept for hours—full on REM sleep. Head up against the window. Drool. Dead to the world. Transported. Somewhere else.

Until something caused him to open his left eye.

To Be Continued………………………

To Be Continued #4..........................

2009-01-21T19:24:00.008-05:00

Yea, like, my main Washington corespondent is jetting into town as we speak. He was hanging with POTUS/BHO and then chillin' with Beyonce, and Shakira, and Jay-Z, and all the "hot preppie bitches" that gathered in Washington to celebrate the very special event that captured the imagination of our country, the world, and the Dick Cheney "First I shot my friend in the face and then I wheel up in a wheelchair to the inauguration of our hyper capable replacements wearing a scowl, and a black fedora, and looking like MR Potter from that movie--It's a Wonderful Life" fan club. So we're going to keep the soaring rhetoric to a minimum, and we're gonna tune back in tomorrow for David Sloane's "Man on the street/Man about town/Man at the axis of History/Man who is real tried from partying with all the hot preppie bitches" report tomorrow. In the the meantime, the To Be Continued's..........Continue. #4.

So...........
The Swizz sat back and just took it all in--the emptiness. The idea that the way he'd lived his life and the crazy things he'd endured over the last year was over didn't really penetrate the haze brought on by his last call to Stain and the bong hit on the couch. The idea bubble that appeared over his head was more like "Ahhhhhhh, run away". The fact that he was always running away and was always gonna run away was also lost on him. Deep down he knew he was running from something, but on the outside, it was just another road trip. A road trip that'd make things better when he got there. He'd already driven from the mean streets of quaint new England to the rough and tumble ghetto of Boulder, Colorado in cars with holes in the floorboards, and bent axles, and spider webbed windshields, and oil leaks and no heat, and expired inspection stickers, and oh yeah, a dusty rose/pink Volvo wagon that had a broken gas gauge and a gas tank that was rusted so bad, it would only hold about 5 bucks worth of gas at a time. No problem for Billy "Mr Self-Sufficiency" Swizzle. He just brought a 5 gallon jerry can with him on those 2,100 mile treks across fly-over America. As soon as the engine started to cough the cough of fuel starvation, bango, he was on the side of the road and filling the car like those dudes in NASCAR pit crews. You know, the guys that wear helmets, and flame retardant suits plastered with patches paid for by sponsors selling stuff like Wonder Bread, and Skoal Bandits, and STP Oil treatment. An icy wind would be blowing across the rolling hills of Iowa, or Illinois, or Ohio, and 18 wheelers would be sucking the all the air of the road along with them as they barrelled down the highway that Eisenhower had built after he'd seen the Autobahn in Germany, and the dusty rose Volvo would be coughing and sputtering, gasping for fuel, and the Swizz was running, and pouring, and then, the first of the jerry can gas would gurgle down the hole where the gas goes, and the engine would smooth out, and he was off again. Running.

"SWIZZY-SWIZZ-ER_RI-NOOOOOOOOOO" Angel yelps in that crazy Cali-accent he has. "Yeahhh man, get your stuff. This is gonna be awesome."

"Ya okay, first I'm gonna do another bong hit, and then I'm finally gonna get that cigarette." exhales the Swizz. "You remember me just wanting to have a cigarette? By the side of the road? Just minding my own business? Just chugaling down the road? And then you guys show up. I've quit my job and signed up for a Cali trip with you guys between cigarettes. Whoa."

So the Swizz settled in. Herbed up, pulled deep, deep, draws of the Marlboro that one of the girls that had showed up (there was always somebody showing up) passed to him, and thought about Cali. the Ocean. The Pacific Ocean. He'd never been to California and he'd never seen the Pacific. Shit, he'd hadn't been west of the Mighty Missip..until he rolled off that RTD bus that first time. He had some cheesy matching suitcases and was amazed that the Boulder he'd kinda read about in that brochure with the good looking girls by the fountain wasn't in the mountains. The thought bubble over his head that day was like "I thought Boulder was IN the mountains. What's up with these plains?" Genius.

Angel and Ebony settled in but were also trying to push the "Let's go" button as well. "Yea, we'll leave in an hour or so," says Ebony as the smoke in the house grew thicker.

"Swizz, you packed?" asks Angel.

"Ah yea, I've got some shorts, and some t-shirts, a sleeping bag, and about seventy five bucks." He also had a sleeping pad that was always captured the curiosity (and the jealousy) of the campsite. It was this piece of foam that his Dad had brought home from a job site one day. Probably some kind of pipe insulation or something. Probably had asbestos or some other toxic shit in it but, it was about an inch thick and was the softest, squishyest, most comfortable sleeping pad you ever did see. the Cadillac of sleeping pads. "Oh yea I've got the 1-incher too."

"Well aren't you somethin' special," says Ebony. You see, Ebony and Angle had been loading everything into the Dash-a-Way that they could think of. Tennis racquet's. Climbing stuff. All sorts of camping stuff. I think they even brought a basketball. Who needs a basketball in Yosemite National-fuckin-Park?

And they had the cooler all loaded up. It wasn't those sissy-type coolers where you can only fit a ham sandwich and a bottle of Yoo-Hoo, you know, like a glorified lunch box. It wasn't one of those coolers at.....all. It was a full-on cooler that was about 4 feet long and three feet deep. You could store a full-size tuna in there if you needed to. It nearly took up the whole trunk and that was good. It was filled with the finest PBR's money could buy, and they were pulling and popping 'em (the keg fridge was keg-less in anticipation of being outa town for a while) as they sat on the porch and cranked the buzzes up to a more "artistic" state. "Hey man, it's 10 o'clock." chimes Ebony the time keeper. "We gotta get goin' or we're never gonna get there."

"Yea, man less go, lesss go, lessssss go," says Angel the energizer.

So finally, at about 10:30 PM, they shoe horned themselves in among the coolers, and tennis racquet's, and fishing poles, and croquet mallets, and climbing gear and all the other stupid shit in the V-Dub with the bright orange/deer hunter orange bumper sticker that proclaimed "Out of my way, I'm going to Bingo" and pulled away from the curb to the clunk of the shocks bottoming out. Just as they had on a different sidewalk only a few short hours ago. It was Ebony's car and he always drove better when he was a kinda lubed up so he was driving first. Outta town, down through Golden, up and over (some of us reformed Bay Staters say ova.....and get made fun in mixed company) the Continental divide and then all down hill to the sea. "All down hill from here" thinks Swizz with a smile. "All down hill."

But they had to get out of town first.

To be Continued......................

We're postponing our regularly scheduled broadcast for some Obama Inauguration Love and to introduce a guest blogger.....

2009-01-19T18:52:00.008-05:00

Hey folks. There are several "To be continueds...." cued up, and we've said it before and we'll say it again, the Swizz is apolitical, BUT, there's some cool stuff afoot. This whole inauguration and the images it conjures, is/are far too powerful to just sweep under the apolitical rug. The Swizz was seen at an Obama fundraiser last June, and so was the guest blogger we're introducing today. But he wasn't doing frivolous stuff like light saber interpretive dancing or singing Duran Duran hits. He dove into volunteering with the Obama campaign in early 08, and kept working, and working, and organizing, and motivating until the poles closed on election night. He was an integral part of the cambridge/somerville Obama volunteer corps that numbered in the thousands and had a real impact on Obama winning New Hampshire on election night. David Sloane is a grande, grande amigo of the Swizz and he's ridden the wave down to Washington, DC to drink in the festivities. He's got a ticket to the swearing-in ceremony as well as some kind of inaugural ball tomorrow night. David will be bringing it old school to the party so please tune back in for his post(s) from da Capitol. The above clip was shot at one of the many Obama Volunteer parties David participated in last fall. The regularly scheduled programing (To be continued #4) will return shortly.

And you've got to check out John Legend's behinds the scenes video blog from the line of entertainers after saturday's inaugural kick off concert. What an awesome collection of show biz talent.

To be continued........ #3

2009-01-18T14:43:00.007-05:00

So……the Dash-A-Way pulled off the sidewalk with a crunch as the shocks bottomed out. The boys made the stops that Angel needed to make (to borrow a tent and load up on alcohol) and then it was back to the house on the hill. Ebony and Swizz lived there with four other like minded delinquents and numerous couch sleepers and passers through. It had a keg fridge on the porch. And it wasn’t like one of those fancy keg fridges with the oversized, stylized Budweiser tap handle you see in the Hemmer Schlemecker catalogue. It was a full size fridge from the 50’s. You know the kind with the handle that locks. It was dented and rusty and had a hole drilled in the door for the tap. And it was placed inconveniently in front of the door. You had to walk around it (the screen door hit it when you tried to get in). It was obvious that the boys had grand plans for bringing it in the house at first, but then realized that it was too big, or it wouldn’t make it around the corner into the kitchen, so they just left it there, in front of the door. And that was the only place that the cord would reach into the house anyway; they didn’t think to get an extension cord.

Some sort of amorphous hippy jam band music was playing and Eddie was on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through a magazine, while Amadeus was in full freak out. Amadeus was a bunny that had come to live with the boys thanks to one of the girlfriends. Not a ski bunny or a honey bunny, a full-on, tiny little bunny with ears and a cotton tail and a paranoid schizophrenic personality that no doubt, was due to the treatment it received in the house on the hill. Amadeus darted around the house like a ping pong ball. And the little furball made sure to shit in every available pile of underwear, or ski gear, or unwashed hippy poncho she could find. And there was no shortage of hippy ponchos and nappy Mexican blankets for Amadeus to festoon with little round pellets.

“What’s up Hoss?” says Swizz as he squeezed around the fridge and came into the living room.

“You’re lookin’ at it Swizz,” says ol’ Eddie. “You want a bong hit?”

“Yup.”

So they just sat there on the threadbare couch that had pulled from the side of the road on trash day and smoked. Amadeus ran through the room and Ebony made a thundering, crashing attempt to catch the little bugger. He succeeded in knocking over a couple of beer bottles and crashing into the fireplace, but he was no match for the little pellet popper.

So once a pleasantly muffled haze had settled in, the Swizz was ready to call Stain. The two hour time difference meant he’d probably be able to get him on the phone even though he’d much rather just leave a message, “Ah yea, Bruce, Bill here, fuck you---slam.”, but something in his upbringing told him he had to do it in person. He had to be a man about it and tell the guy he had come to hate face to face or at least in person rather than a cowardly voice mail.

So, he took the battered house phone and dialed.

Bringggg, bri---“What?!” says Stain.

“Hey Bruce, it’s Bill.”

“Yea Bill, what do you want? It’s Saturday for Christ sake, why are you calling me?”

“Ummm, I don’t know how to tell you this but…”. That voice sent a shot of fear through the Swizz like a head rush.

“Ummm, I want to take a week off,” he’d planned on quitting when he dialed the phone, but that voice flipped the survival switch in his mind. It was instantaneous and woefully flawed at ever achieving the desired fear-free outcome. It had never worked but still he tried it. It was almost involuntary.

“What?! Who will run the phones? I hired you to make calls, God-damit. You’ve been doing a shitty job lately and now you want a vacation?! No, fucking way.”

“Uhhhhh. Ummmmm.” So this was it. He could cave (and save) and be like “Oh yea, I guess I could take some time when things a going a bit better. Just wanted to feel you out.”

Then Amadeus shot across the room, and Angel went by with some stuff for the car, and Ebony turned the channel on the Tee-Vee, and he remembered.

“Yea, OK, so I guess this is it then.”

“It? What it?”

“I’m done. You’re gonna have to get someone else to run things.

“Are you shitting me? What do you mean you’re done?”

‘I’m done. I quit.”

“Hey Bill, I’m gonna give you a little bit of free advice. You quit on me now and…...”

“And what?”

“You little shit. This is going to follow you man. It’s gonna follow you. And you are shit out of luck if you think I’ll EVER give you a reference.

“Hey, Bruce,” the fear he’d felt not a minute before was replaced with a fantastic sense of return. He was on the threshold of the life that he’d thrown away and wasn’t sure could get back. “So what? You think my experience getting old ladies to give parts of their social security checks to a sleaze ball like you is gonna make a difference one way or another in my life.”

Silence.

Click.

“Woah, Nellie,” says the Swizz to nobody in particular.

“Yeaaaa booooiy,” says Ebony. “Get packed. We’re leaving in a couple hours.”

To be continued………..

Decisions decisions.......#2

2009-01-16T21:50:00.007-05:00

“So……….What’s it gonna be?”

The Swizz thought about that for a second. He thought about his time back in Boston, living with mom, and that crazy commute in the black Chrysler LeBaron he’d borrowed from his grandmother. He thought about the 12 hour days making hundreds of calls, telemarketing calls, raising money for whacked out things like the Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant, and the Citizens for Limited Taxation, and the Association of College Republicans. There were two shifts. He’d start at 9 and make calls until 4 or so. Sheila the day manager was fat and overbearing. The calls at night went from 6 until 10. The night boss was this guy with stringy hair, a comb-over in fact, and bad breath. He was all about the white board—the numbers. “More calls, more money,” he’d say.

And he thought about Bruce, Bruce Stain. The guy who hired him. His boss. The guy who told him “Yea you gotta bend the truth a bit, but who gives a fuck? I’m payin’ you good money, right? And you’re not sweeping floors like you were on that union job, right? And you’ve got a future thanks to me, right? We got a problem if you don't make those fuckin' numbers.... you understand?!” Stain--no shit. (Note—As Swizzle-blog DS reader astutely points out, these events must have been from the Pre-Swizz era. And he’s right, sort of. All of the following To be continues.... are fictional and took place a little less recent than the “recent past”).

So the Swizz just kept standing there, remembering the quarter pounder with cheese lunches eaten in the LeBaron, (in the parking lot). And not wanting to go back into that broken down little office filled with those broken down little people. But he was trapped. The fear and Darkness he felt back then crept into his soul like cold works its way in under the door with broken weather stripping.

He’d made it back from the brink (and back to that sidewalk in Boulder on his way to smoke cigarettes and bong hits with Slippery Pete ), but he still had to answer to Stain. Yea. He did his time “learning the ropes” under Stain and his hench men and women, and then, he was the boss. It was his phone bank. He had business cards that said “Manager” on them. He had high hopes for using those cards, you know……. with the ladies. “My card,” he’d say. “I’m the boss. I hire and fire people. Do you like me? Will you please like me?” Funny how the hippie college girls weren’t all that impressed with the skinny 19 year old, who dropped out after freshman year and ended up running a two-bit, right wing telemarketing phone bank in Boulder, Colorado. Odd? Curious? What a surprise.

But what he was really hoping for was that he’d magically become a “businessman,” a coke-snortin’ yuppie that would finally be free from the craziness back east. Free from the bondage of the unsolvable problem. He was grasping at straws and yea, he was back, and making some money, and skiing, and doing the band, and the drugs.

But he was also the “manager,” the “big shot businessman”, the guy that was responsible for the numbers: had to call ‘em in every night before he turned off the lights and rushed to wherever relief was. And he had to lie to get the numbers. He lied to the college kids he hired (and should have been in class with) and he made them to lie too. He needed them to make the numbers because, Stain rocked the ground beneath Swizz’s fragile, fearful psyche when they didn’t. It was fear. It was real. And Swizz didn’t know what was worse. The fear or the shame he felt for feeling it.

“Yo Swizz?” Angel says as he waves his hand in front his eyes. “Earth to Swizz. Man……”

To be continued……….

Once Upon a Time.......#1

2009-01-14T19:15:00.004-05:00

The Swizz was walking down the road one day in the not-so-distant past. Just minding his own business, when a couple of dudes pulled up in a 1979 VW Dasher. It was dirty. It was grey, and it had an “Out of my way I’m going to BINGO!” bumper sticker on the back bumper. It was one of those chrome-type bumpers—kinda dented and rusty and the sticker pronounced the driver’s aggressive love of BINGO with black letters on a fluorescent, dear hunter orange background. Now the only reason the Swizz even noticed the bumper, or the sticker, was the fact that the car with the rusty/sticker festooned bumper didn’t just pull up all nice and civilized like. The square back Dasher pulled up in a screeching of tires/belching of smoke/grinding of clutch/up on the sidewalk kind of way. And the driver was driving pretty fast before noticing the Swizz’s white locks, embroidered pants, and loping gait, so the car came to a heaving, breathing, smoking stop several boat lengths down the road (or up the sidewalk) from the Swizz—who was just minding his own business.

The window rolled down in that erratic way windows were manually rolled down before the days when even the lowest of the uber-sub-compact-economy cars were equipped with push button window roller-downers.

“Hey Swizz,” said the leaning, leering, passenger seat occupant. He was leaning and looking back with his head slightly cocked to the right, like he was trying to remember something he just couldn't’t put his finger on.

“He—uhhh—oh---no.” said the Swizz.

The Swizz was just greasing down the street. Minding his own business— attention flitting to and fro—contemplating mustaches, lonely roads, cliche drum fills, cleavage, and then boom—Ebony O’Malley is erratically rolling the window of a smoky, rusty, bumper sticker emblazoned car a couple of boat lengths up the sidewalk and saying “Hey Swizz.”

Ebony comes from an old east coast family. He’s well versed in proper etiquette to be employed at coming out parties, is usually dressed in some sort of woolen product that has been shorn, spun, and knitted back on the family farm, and revels in his role as chief/ring-leader/creative juicer/lead guitar player of “The Mongrels,” a band that has recently shared the bandstand with Swizzle’s band MARS. Now it’s not Swizzle’s band, really. MARS has a strong CEO and a dynamic marketing department--Swizzle is but a minion. He plays a role. And that role is……Chief Whupp-Ass deliverer. He delivers the Ka-Boom in matched luggage full of noise. If bringing-it is a commodity--he’s the New York Stock Exchange of brought-en, if rhythmic-whiplash is wrapped in cardboard and protected by those little plastic peanuts, he’s the Postman of Pow, the Mailman of Mow Down.

But Ebony wasn’t thinking about any of that. And neither was the Swizz…or the guy behind the wheel.

“WHAAAATS UPPPPP BILLEEEEEEEE SWIZZ,” screams Angel VonRosenvinge, a.k.a., the guy behind the wheel. He sporting an ear-to-ear smile that accentuates his broken front tooth, a dirty mop of longish dirty blonde hair, and cuts on his hands in various states of scab formation.

“Auahhhhhhhhhhhhhh….Yeaaaaaaaa…..Von Swizz-en-hammaaaaaaaa,” he cackles with that weird voice of his. It went from yoga OM-low to Billy Squire-high over the course of the somewhat rattling scream/yell greeting. The dude has Pavarotti pipes. But he’s not in a band. He’s the ring leader/chief inspirer/wing nut savant in the local world of “adventure”. Not like the “adventure” you see cruise ship lines advertise on Tee Vee during the red carpet portion of the Golden Globes, or the “adventure” that’s chronicled so dramatically in the pages of Men’s Life Magazine. He’s a celebrity/god/ultra cool guy in his “adventure” world of rock climbing and extreme back country skiing, mountain biking, and base jumping without a parachute, but that’s not the world that Ebony and the Swizz roll in, and that’s certainly not the world that just crashed up on the sidewalk. No-sir-ree. The Swizz and E’s world(s) mix aspects of Angel's amped outdoorsy-ness, with a different breed of life threatening risks and a paralyzing fear of missing the truly great ride which, of course, is lubricated by the artiste/pseudo rock vibe, (you know, whiskey, drug dabbling, drug diving,--rocking). And to top it all off, both Ebony and the Swizz bring an edge, a something, that betrays their east coast roots. Crazy VonRosenvinge is from Cali, dude. The brain trust

“Where you goin?’” says Ebony.

“Up to Slippery Pete’s,” says Swizz.

“Oh yea. You want to come with us? We’re headed to Yosemite and then we’ll spend a few days in San Francisco. Ding-bat here was just getting some last minute stuff before we leave,” he says.

Swizz confesses,” I’m jonesin for a cigarette.”

“Come on Billeeee,” yells Angie with that look. “Yosemite is the shit. We’re gonna camp in the valley. You ever seen those Ansel Adams photos?”

“But I gotta work.”

“That’s the worst fucking job I’ve ever fucking heard of. You know you want to quit. Who gives a fuck about that stupid guy and that stupid job?” says Angel (Professional career counselor to the stars) VonRosenvinge. “Don’t even get me started. What you want to do?

“I want a cigarette.”

“You got two choices man. Get in and we’re off. Get in and your free. All it takes is a phone call to dickhead, then we’ll swing by the house so you can get your stuff. What’s it gonna be?”

(to be continued)........................

Oddity Illustrated

2009-01-13T14:27:00.006-05:00

The Swizz may be getting sick of himself and going on and on about what? Vacations? Psuedo-rock shows. Bike rides? Snow shoveling? Snorkeling? And don't forget pettiness and/or gloomy heavy breathers and yes men. Maybe he's wrestling with something. Maybe a new layer of the Swizz is popping to the surface. So an interlude from Swizz-selfing to provide a little glimpse of something remarkable, or thought provoking, that doesn't involve the Swizz is in order. Steven Wiltshire's ability to store all the detail of Rome in his mind (from a short helicopter ride) and then recreate it from memory on a 10 foot canvas seems a lot more interesting than the fang-like shape of the Swizz's mustache. Voila

California con-tem-plate-n'

2009-01-10T16:51:00.005-05:00

Now at the risk of offending all those brothers and sisters in the great state of Cal-i-for-ni-a, the Swizz vamped a bit as the great new year's expedition drew to a close. The poignancy of the experience may only be apparent to the Swizz, but it doesn't really get more Cowboy or more "west" than heading off into the sunset. And it doesn't get more stereotypically California than to head off into the sunset on a freeway that has a number and is always referred to as The (fill in the freeway number here). So maybe there's something there. Maybe a latent longing for some unattained idea/ideal/thing? Or maybe the memories of times when heading into western sunsets was a more regular occurrence in the Swizz's world stirred up some emotional ooze. In the past, the vexing question was, was the problem the place, or was it the Swizz? The answer seems obvious now. Off to the gig at the Lizard.

Bike Diary: Arctic Edition

2009-01-09T18:54:00.006-05:00

Who cares if the temperature is in the teens? Who cares if the snowbanks are simply rock hard ice banks? Who cares if the wind chill is smack dab dingo on zero degrees? And who cares if every day in this winter of our economic discontent represents another day where the possibility for remarkable pettiness, wonderfully toxic discourse, and vacant, totally ridiculous, passive aggressive actions, is through the roof. Like rimless zeros, some hide in their offices, only to come out and impose a pall over the farm with dim witted frowning and heavy breathing. Is dim witted frowning and heavy breathing an action? And anxiety from others that if only could be harnessed and channelled in some way, could power a small city. Something or somebody may snap, but it won't be the Swizz. Because in true Aerosmith fashion, He's Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak in the saddle again. He's Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak.

Swizzle-base

2009-01-07T17:57:00.005-05:00

We'll just taking a little time off shooting video of silly parties, gigs, and other bally-hoo to do a bit of base jumping. Nothing blows the Swizz's wig back more than jumping off a cliff, flying dangerously close to the edge, and then just kicking the whole program up to ludicrous speed.

Awesome awesomeness

2009-01-06T07:31:00.009-05:00

So like.... there has been no exercise in like.... two weeks. There's been redeyes, and holidays, and present presentations, and walks on city streets and hilly paths, and snowstorms, and ice storms, and yoga on both coasts, but no real blood pumping, heavy breathing, hammering down on the bike in like...two weeks. So that's cool, no problem, the holidays are over and life has slowed enough to allow for the regular bike commute to the awesome 6X6 foot, mole-like cube that's oh, so close to all the brilliant conversations my colleagues have with the various wives, boyfriends, and customer service professionals they have in their lives. "Get your manager on the phone. Right.... god damn....now. My business (translation: petty problem) is very important to your company and I'm going to talk to your bosses boss if you don't.........." he says with a quiver in his voice that's kinda scary and often precludes a full fledged, toddler-like meltdown. "What do you want for dinner?" she says, (the seventh call today starting at 9:05a.m.). It's so awesome to be part of those calls.

So yesterday, all got up in my Ninja bike get-up, I almost take a dixie down the stairs that were a sheet of ice, and gingerly get the bike out to the salty, slushie road. Awesome. I don't care if there's ice or if I crash, I'm riding this damn bike. Not---the bike I'd spent hours fixing the night before has the same problem--Broken. No problem. It happened in the driveway, I'll just take the train for one more day and booo yaaaa,, the hammer-fest begins tomorrow.

So tomorrow is today. Ninjiaed up. Snow/icebanks have a wonderful tinge of filth. Bike is fixed, again. Yep, the hammering will continue until.........Ahhhhhhhhhh. Broken. How is that possible? Am I insane? And it's just so awesome to be about 1/2 mile away from home. Awesome, Awesome, Awesome. So I'm posting the vid from Guana Island (part of the BVI land based goodness) to make me feel better. I'm not sure it's working. Vacation is often better than the stupid banality of the everyday.

Mustache advice request

2009-01-04T16:31:00.015-05:00

OK. So the Swizz rocked the house with a sweet Tom Seleck/Burt Reynolds mustache for New Year's. We were right at home with all the other mask wearing/alter ego embracing hipsters at the party in the Berkley hills, but the question is.....what happens when the alter ego makes an appearance beyond the confines of gigs, parties, and boats, and bike rides? What happens when traces of Swizz start to spill out at work, or yoga, or the grocery store? The sweet mustache is still here, and it looks better and more Tom Seleck/Burt Reynolds the longer it lingers. But it's the Swizz's mustache. Or is it?

There's a gig coming up next weekend. Part of me realizes that nothing would be sweeter than the Swizz's mustache....... dyed platinum blond for the gig and to match the wig. MARS has been gearing up for this Saturday night gig at the Lizard Lounge, since we absolutely killed our sold out show there this time last year. The guest list of eager MARS followers seems to be growing, and the Swizz is even going to step in front of the drum kit and play bass for one song. Yet another part of me wants keep the power of the Swizz on the down low as much as possible. The question is....should the mustache stay (through the mundane week of work) until next weekend.....or is the fact that the Swizz is somewhat mysterious, only comes out from time to time, and is always below the surface what makes the Swizz, The Swizz? What would your alter-ego do?

A Very Swizzle New Year

2009-01-02T17:30:00.010-05:00

Happy Happy everybody. Man, we made it. Twists and turns. Bumps, bruises, boo boos, and some boom boom as well. Planes, trains, boats. Mansions, bungalows, city streets, and country lanes. West side, East side, and the Flip side. I need lots of words to explain last week, but this video of the New Year's masquerade ball in the abandoded Spring mansion in the Berkley Hills will give you a taste. And I hope all you cats out there had a good holiday and that we can get together soon to make some more magic. MARS has a gig next Saturday night at the Lizard Lounge in Cambridge (1/10/08), and I'm still looking for guest bloggers. Come on now. Gim me some sugar.

New Year, New Facial Hair

2009-01-01T21:40:00.011-05:00

Way to much went on last night to do the video edit justice. We partied like Charlie Sheen at a cocaine factory. Or Jack Black at a Oreo Cookie factory. Or like Lindsay Lohan at a "Promises" reunion.

We made it back to the hotel but.....I woke up with a hangover that rivaled the worst I'd suffered in my drinking days. What's up with that? The Swizz hasn't drank or done drugs since 1993, yet he was the dude who was more hungover than anybody else? No question it was psychosomatic. I've had hangover flashbacks in the past but this was over the top. So, all we did was lay in bed at the Claremont like rock stars until the wee hours. No time to cut the penultimate Black Tie masquerade ball vid.

So the Swizz is sporting a ultra sexy Tom Jones/Burt Reynolds/Tom Seleck mustache, and the glow that comes from taking part in a once in a lifetime event. But you'll have to wait just a little longer for the video footage. These stills provide just a taste. Think golden age opulence. Think LA decadence. Think Berkley Hills and probably a few pills. And of course, no party is complete without Herve Vilachez--the midget who played Tattoo on"Fantasy Island". And there was a whole lot more.

The countdown..a poem

2008-12-31T19:34:00.008-05:00

Travelled from sunny day to Pacific, cold and grey.
Yoga in the Castro. The tattooed teacher was...gay.
Custom made Coffee at Philz... ultra trend-ay.
Coustume shopping in scummy Height/Ashbur-ay
And then Chinatown for the pre-partay.

And oh yea. Saeda, our Italian friend Stefano's, friend was brought into the mix. She's an ultra chill yoga teacher but the 24 hours we've been in her life have really contributed to her delinquency. First we take her to lunch and she completely misses a class that she's supposed to be teaching. Then Saeda, a health conscious vegetarian starts drinking coffee and eating meat. Then there's the whole cleavage thing and partying with the Sloane bros and 60 of our closest friends. Anyway, we've touched down at the Claremont Hotel in Berkley. Swizzle is about to lift off.

Lego Star Wars Gangsta Rap

2008-12-30T12:19:00.003-05:00

The team is heading out for ultra-hip yoga, coffee drinking, and hooking up with the full party contingent. Hipsters from all over creation are descending on the citaay by the Baay to bid adieu to 2008 and to say "Whaaaas's Uuuuuuuuuuup" to 2009 in true gangsta fashion. So in light of the possies coming together (west coast/east coast style) there's really no better way to prime the pump than with a little Lego Star Wars gangsta rap. It's not an east side thang or a west coast side thang--it's the Dark Side.

And now for something completely different

2008-12-29T13:28:00.004-05:00

The Swizzes had the full-on NorCal day on the Bay. Cruised to Angel Island on a friends powerboat, lunch in ultra swish Tiburon, the skyline of San Francisco looking oh so cool, but who wants to hear about that? I want to help you all feel so much better about things in your lives with tales of my stupidity. After you read the following, I hope you think of me when things don’t seem so good in your lives. Your idea bubble will read, “At least I’m not a dumb as that guy.”

It all went down with the new cell phone. I made a few calls. Took a few pictures and texted a few texts. Then the battery went dead. No problem, I’m totally schooled in recharging cell phone batteries. So I put the cord into the phone, plugged it in, and came back a while later. Dead. No matter what I did and how I jiggled the cord in the phone it still wouldn’t charge.

I called the customer service number, described my problem, and the “how may I help you” woman at the cell phone “customer service” call center says, “Nope. Not covered. Physical damage isn’t covered. You can buy a new phone if you like.”

“What? I didn’t do anything to the phone. Are you kidding me? It’s brand new,” I say with self righteous indignation dripping down the land line connection.

“Nope, not covered,” she says.

After describing my very important situation in various ways and with various attitudes (self-pity, anger, confusion, faux-friendly) I give up. “I hope this call is being recorded because this is it, you just lost my business,” I say like the high roller deal maker/deal breaker that I am. And I’m sure she was real scared because I’ve been rolling with the cheapest cell phone service and I’m sure they can not afford to loose me.

She reads from the script she’s been given to deal with psycho customers that don’t want to take responsibility for their problems, “Have a nice day and thank you for calling bla bla bla…”

Slam. I hang up mid-bla.

Several cell phone-less weeks went by before I steeled my nerve and I brought the phone and my self righteous indignation into the store. This is it. I’m turning on the face-to-face charm. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to play hardball with the unsuspecting cell phone clerk.

So I get in line and roll my eyes at the girl in front of me. “Ummmm—I’d like to recharge the minuets on my pay-as-you-go phone but uhh, I don’t know the number,” she says.

“What the F*uk?” appears in that little idea bubble over my head. “How dumb can you be?” I’ve seen it all, I smugly think to myself. “This brain surgeon doesn’t even know her own phone number?” The whole process takes for….ever…. Finally, “Dingbat #1” and her trusty sidekick “Ummm…..” get their new minuets taken care of and finally I’m up. Satisfaction awaits.

“This phone is defective,” I say. I’m working the “can you cut me a break/you guys just sold me a cheap ass broken phone and if you can just give me a new one we’ll all be happy” attitude. I show my man behind the counter how the cord connection has pushed into the phone because its just so cheap and defective. “See,” I say. “It’s brand new and it’s broken.”

I give the phone to the bald dude behind the counter. He’s just helped “Dingbat #1” and “Ummmm……” with their totally stupid problem but now he’s got a real problem to solve. So he grabs the phone, and looks me straight in the eye, and continues to look me straight in the eye as he flips the little plastic thing that covers the charger connection on the phone and says in a total deadpan “The cord goes in here.” His explanation…… deadpan. His voice…..deadpan. But the idea bubble over his head screams with exclamation points!!!! “Are you kidding me?!!!! This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen!!!!!! You make Dingbat #1 look like a Mensa member!!!! I can’t wait to tell the other cell phone dudes behind the counter about you!!!!!”

As you were probably quick to realize, I was putting the cord into the wrong port. The phone has two ports covered with those little plastic things and I was absolutely sure that I was using the right one. And the one I was using was defective. I had to force the cord in a bit but, I just knew it was the right one—just a little sticky. I was so sure I was using the right one I didn’t even bother to open the other little plastic thingy on the other port.

I’m not making this stuff up. I’d like to think I’m a smart guy and all that, but I really believed I was right. It was impossible to be any way other than the way I thought it should be. I believed it right up until the bald cell phone dude who thought he’d seen it all (until he met me), looked me straight in the eye and put the cord in the other port. How is that possible?

I forced a smile and a “Boy, this is embarrassing,” to my cell phone superior, but there was really nothing I could say or do to get away from the fact that I just made a woman who couldn’t remember her cell phone number look like a Nobel Laureate.

There was nothing I could do.

Bringing it west coast style

2008-12-28T12:11:00.003-05:00

So we touched down in San Francisco. The plan is to visit and celebrate and check out cool NoCal destinations and then party down at a black tie masquerade ball at the spring mansion in Berkley. The Pace is hectic here and I had some technical difficulties getting this post posted, but it's all coming together. We're fueling up the armada and getting ready to take the show on the water. I've also got the sweet Journey--"When the lights go down in the Citaaaay" groove working for us

Billy Swizzle--RAW

2008-12-26T18:53:00.009-05:00

Remember when that "Eddie Murphy--RAW" special came out on HBO? Cable was a relatively new thing and Eddie Murphy was the king, absolute King. He showed up to his sold out show at Madison Square Garden in a big fat Cadillac stretch limo with the old orange and blue NY licences plate--vanity plate no less. The caddy was wide. It was long, It was black. And and the plate said it all----RAW. He gets out of the limo wearing that crazy skin tight leather suit that drove the women (some women) wild in the 80's. Unzipped the tight jacket a bit to show the bare chest and the gold. Super tight pants showed the ladies the ass. He was even been wearing some fine Italian driving gloves to complete the look. It was the kind of suit that said---I'm here mother f*&^%, and I look good. And that's what the show was all about. He talked about fuc*king, and fighting, and money, and white people, and black people, and Rocky-type Italians, and what it was like growing up, and we laughed so hard our faces hurt. We repeated the best Eddie Murphy lines after for months. He was so good you could almost see the little idea bubble over his head as he was slaying the live audience and the "via satellite" audience as well. The little bubble read "I am the f*ucking man. Look at me slaying these people. I can do anything and anyone tonight. Check this out....."

The 30 hours of the Swizzle Christmas weren't really like that. There were raw moments. But they were lower case raw and more raw like your face feels when it's 15 degrees and you're walking into a 20 knot headwind. Raw and chapped. But thankfully those were only fleeting moments inbetween the Martha Stewart/Oprah/It's a Wonderful Life-type moments.

Anyhoo, the Swizzle show is going on the road. Just taking a quick break from the furious packing fest to furiously post. I like the idea of getting at least one post up a day. The discpline is similar to the mind force that Cain used in the 70's "Kung-Fu" series. But don't get me started. Any idea where Swizzle will turn up next? Tune in tomorrow to find out.

Mission Accomplished: Christmas

2008-12-25T21:17:00.009-05:00

Indulge me. I'm feeling a bit sentimental. I guess I just realized that the ghosts of Christmas past need not darken our door if we don't invite them in. I'm 40 years old and this was the first Christmas tree I ever bought for myself (or ourselves rather). First Christmas dinner. First time since I jumped up and down about the new bike or the new radio control ed car or the new tape deck with the Who cassette that Santa brought, that I didn't travel somewhere for Christmas. I know it's just another day but.. We had the full on Norman Rockwell turkey. And genuine goodness exchanging presents. And a warm fire. I guess I always thought that other people always had Christmas like this but it was not really in the cards for the kid. I guess I'm just kind of grateful. Grateful for the good things.

Now just because I'm suffering from this warm glow of cliches doesn't mean I'm turning into George Bailey of the Ol' Bailey Savings and Loan. I was almost dizzy with psychosis when it came time to go in the basement and find Christmas type stuff. The chaos of boxes and hoarded stuff almost threw me over the edge. Napoleon in my mind screams "Why do we have boxes of bills from 1999 stored in the basement? How much crap can one house hold and one man navigate through. I'm drowning in clutter chaos, I say, drowning"... says the little internal Dictator. But I remembered a simple truth. The Honey Bunny just wants every one to be happy and well cared for. The Kin just want to hang and be together. And that's the stuff (not the chaos beneath the surface) is way more important than what what the little despot thinks. Simple is good. And oh yea--Henry and George are, in fact, fury elves.

Video Christmas card from Santa Swizz

2008-12-24T19:07:00.006-05:00

The Swizz has been hanging in Christmas-land to the point where our feline friends Henry and George are starting to look like furry-elves and the Swizz has fallen, wig-first, into the Santa-esque groove. The chestnuts are roasting. The fire is crackling. The stockings are hung. The tree has an ultra-tasteful white light aura. Kinda sappy, but this is the first Christmas we've actually spent at home. The goal is to have a non-toxic, drama-free Christmas with some of the Swizzes direct kinfolk. There have been some dramas in the past, but the plan is to forge a new path and a christen a new tradition of Yuletide joy and brotherhood. So, we're off to a multi-national Christmas eve soiree and then back home to get ready for the Kin and ol' Kris Kringle. I hope all you cool cats and foxy mommas have a truly happy Christmas.