Beverly Hillbillies Lyrics


29/Jan/2002 1:04

Hi gang, Blaine here. I just want to say that I am overwhelmed, touched, a tear comes to my eye at the many confirmations and
new signings to my little list. Rest assured that

1. I will endeavor to provide the people of this city with…………….wait a minute, that’s
Charles Foster Kane’s Declaration of Principles.

It will certainly help at my sanity hearings to know that the public which I address on my website can be proven to exist. I was beginning
to wonder.

Please note that the opening page now includes MUSIC!! way hey, quickdraw.

*******************TODAY’S SITE WORK INCLUDES**************************************

A FANCIED UP JOURNAL PAGE, with pix an’ everthang!!!! Read about the Halcyon days on the Isle of Lucy, my trip to the dentist,
all the news that fit, we print (wanta buy a Grit?)
I haven’t found a better way to present this than with frames, so the link goes to the frameset page. If you have suggestions, there are
provisions in Mundoblaineo for you to send them along to me.


This was the second page I tackled way back when I started on this white whale using a tutorial about how to download a picture of a cat
from the web. The second page was a tables tutorial, hence the name of this page. I have included links to some of my favorite things, like
the weekly world news. (Home of the bat boy and those stories about Elvis Forcing UFO Abductees to have his love child). I have tacked
on some revised info about my home town, Pueblo, Colorado and spent many hours deciding whether teal or maroon makes a better
background color. You be the judge.

Some of the things in store for my loyal readers…………MORE “WEBPORTAGES”. This is a term of my own devising (as far as I know)
meaning “web reportage”. Get it? Ride along with me on my midnight voyage through the dark underbelly of the Galvanic Difference Engine
Telegraphy Network. (Is there a clever acronym there? You do it.)

I have recently researched the current state of american slang, as spoken by perma-fried chodes from coast to coast, waiting for the za dude
and macking on the pebbles at the mall. WORD, ROAD DAWG.
I shall endeavor to whip this into digestible shape and post it on up.

That’s it for today, thank you for your kind attention. Now, an exclusive for my readers, the complete lyrics to the Ballad Of Jed Clampett,
theme music from the Beverly Hillbillies, including the Apocryphal verses from Nag Hammadi. (I think that Buddy Ebsen as Jed was really channeling Lao Tzu, but that’s my personal opinion.)

Come ‘n listen to my story ’bout a man named Jed
Poor Mountaineer barely kept his family fed
An’ then one day, he was shootin’ at some food,
An’ up thru the ground came a bubblin’ crude.
Oil that is! Black gold! Texas tea!

Well, the first thing ya know, Jed’s a millionaire
Kin-folk said, “Jed, move away from there.” Said
Californy is the place y’oughta be, so they
loaded up the truck, and they moved to Beverly.
Hills that is! Swimmin’ pools, Movie stars!

Ol’ Jed bought a mansion. Lawdy it was swank
Next door neighbor was pres’dent of the bank,
Lotsa folks objected, but the banker found no fault,
‘Cause ol’ Jed’s millions was a-layin’ in the vault
Cash, that is! Capital gains, Depletion money!

Well now it’s time to say goodbye to Jed and all his kin
An’ they would like to thank you folks fer kindly droppin’ in.
You’re all invited back again to this locality,
T’have a heapin’ helpin’ of their hospitality.
Hillbilly, that is! Set a spell, Take your shoes off!
Y’all come back, here!
Copyright 1962 by Carolintone Music Company, Inc.

Thanks, G
I’m ghost



Halcyon Days, My Dad's Camel's Hair Coat

halcyon days


Halcyon Days (the privilege of down time)

I am still here on the Isle of Lucy (Lesbos that is). Today the weather was wondrous. These days of faux spring come regularly to Greece in January or February. They call them the “Meres Halkionides” the origin of the English word halcyon . This word, introduced to the language by Bill Shakespeare, is defined as “Idyllically calm and peaceful; suggesting happy tranquillity”. Forsooth. Ain’t it the truth?

(Halcyon refers to the kingfisher bird of greek classical legend who would nest on the waters after they were calmed by the gods for a period of two weeks each year during winter.) I am on my own here as Athena and my son are now in Athens. This is the first time in quite a while that your working boy has had a place to himself. This is also the first time for some while that I have desired solitude in which to work and think.

Someone said (it was Joni Mitchell) that as artists, it is our privilege and our duty to have intervals of “down time” between major periods of work. During these times one may plunge into the psyche like a pearl diver and bring up objects from the bottom. There is the luxury to wash off the slime and sludge and see if the takings of the day are pearls or swine.

With this in mind, it was my duty as an artist to drive out to an area of scenic delight and soak in the resplendence of the sights. I went out to a flatland surrounded by mountains overlooking a bay of such astral magnificence that I often find myself exclaiming the highest accolade an American can bestow upon any given situation. “Wow!” I will say.

My mind is positively buzzing with strange little ideas. Perhaps this is due to the vats of caffeine-rich diet coke I guzzle daily. Perhaps it is a sign that the winter arc of my polar orbit is ending and I am about to scale the dizzy heights of the annual spring mood swing.

My Dad’s Roadster

Apropos of pretty much nothing, I found myself remembering a story about my father, Blaine Morton Reininger as I piloted Athena’s old Honda Civic through the celestial radiance of this day. I was brushing cigarette ashes off of my “cashmere” jacket when it Prousted itself into view.

Ol’ Mort, black sheep of the family, had been obliged by The Great Depression of the thirties to find employment wherever it could be found. Sometimes he scored, more often he went hungry. Like his son, when he came into some money he would generally celebrate his new-found prosperity by spending it as soon as possible.

On this particular occasion, Mort had happened onto a good thing. He had some change in his overalls. He ran right out and bought a new Stutz Bearcat Roadster (a snazzy vehicle of the time) and a camel’s hair coat. He, like me today, was out feeling his oats on a mountain road, puffing one of his perpetual Camels. To his dismay, the burning coal of that cigarette fell off onto his reet new coat. As he tried desperately to save it from destruction, he forget about the Stutz for a minute and went over the side of that steep road.

As he hung there over the cliff, he was forced to decide between staying in his ride or dying. Ever-sensible Mort leapt out of the doomed vehicle and stood there in his charred camel’s hair coat watching the Stutz plummet down the cliff. Ol’ Dad was left sans coat, sans car, sans everything.

What is the moral of this story? There isn’t one. I just wanted to tell a tale of my Father now that I have become one myself. The other day, holding little Ian I realized with a start that I had become Mort. I was the spittin’ image of my dad from the cigarette to the glasses to my stubborn tendency to be tall. Like him, I have gone salt and pepper in the hair, like him I have a head of hair that could double as a toilet brush.

Identity is like the waves and ripples in my faithful Indian companion the wobbly blue sea. Things take on a certain form for a time, then transmute into something else. The fact of the sea remains, but its features are in continual flux.

If I am become Mort today, tomorrow I will be someone else. Privileged as I am to behold the sea every day, I am often struck with just what a wonderful metaphor it is and for how many things. Would we have decided that energy and the very fabric of reality moves in waves were there no sea for us to use as a model?

Sogyal Rinpoche, author of The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, a book which sustained me during the darkest days of grief over the loss of JJ also compared identity to waves in the sea. If the atoms and smaller particles contained in that wave are attached to being there, they are in for a pretty sorry awakening. In any case, a wave is only a manifestation of a force moving through the water. No one set of particles can ever be said to be the wave in question. In the same manner as that wave moves over its matrix, the sea, our personalities move through existence, propelled along by the force of will until we coalesce back into the cosmic background noise.

Such are the thoughts that this noble Aegean , formerly sailed by Argonauts and Atreides family members, inspires in old Guido. And over there across the water is Turkey, where once was Troy. Perhaps there is some cosmic symmetry in the fact that ersatz Agamemnon now hangs in sight of his old stompin’ grounds. Perhaps not.


Non linear note on the Euro.

As things seem to be shaping up, one of the major pains with this coinage is how tiny and fiddly it is. The one cent coin is the size of an aspirin and the others are little better. Everyone in Greece has bought one of the handy dandy Euro conversion calculators such that prices listed in drachmas end up being silly Euro amounts like 1.73. In view of this fact, there was a run on change purses the day after the new coinage hit the streets. A coin purse was not to be had for love nor money on this island. I went to the same shop 5 days running, only to be told that they were coming in on the boat from Athens “Avrio”. Domani, tomorrow.

In keeping with enlightened modern free market practices the streets are now full of gypsies peddling Chinese coin purses. I saw one erstwhile couple in front of the bank selling them from a cardboard box. Then the cops came and they hotfooted it outta there, stuffing the box into a gym bag and ducking into a doorway. Cops left, they re-appeared.

There is a clandestine nod nod wink wink trade in drachmas still going on. Shopkeepers keep drachmas under the counter and keep two tills going. I have yet to travel with this money. How strange to avoid the necessity of changing money. How many times was I stuck in a train station with a fortune of unuseable money in my pocket after hours without the wherewithal to buy a cup of coffee, make a phone call, take a taxi. How many times did I whip the driver of the van onwards coming back from a gig, trying to make it to the bureau de change at the Belgian frontier so that JJ and I could eat when we got home. Now these stories will just bore my son a few years down the line. “Son, in my day you had to show your passport when you went to france. Then you had to buy different money. The people spoke a DIFFERENT LANGUAGE. That’s right, almost no one spoke English!”

“Dad, take your medicine. Here’s your virching glasses. Good Night. Keep your hands off the nurses’ butts. They’ve been complaining again.”

Who Makes All of Those Chinese Lighters?

No. 1 January 27, 2002
The latest and the greatest from
The site that could would be a man, this man, Blaine Leslie Reininger
Greetings potential members of the Mundoblaineo elect.

Blaine here. Blaine L. Reininger, star of stage, screen and his own imagination. As the day wears on I find that my site is taking up more and more of my life. Often, my site goes out and does the shopping for me. My site has been seen out driving around in the company of beautiful women in a BMW it somehow acquired. I am becoming a hollow man while my site is taking over the best parts of me. You too can be kept current on the million trivial things that get me going.

Take for instance the burning question “Who Makes All of Those Cheap Chinese Lighters?”
Haven’t you always wanted to know this? Of course you have. Go to my site and find out.

There is always my journal, an ongoing repository of the events in my ever so exciting life

I have whupped up some stunning graphics which you may view at

and there is continual updating of Tuxedomoon events, history, bruhaha


go there and find out what you have been missing.

your humble slave and webmaster

blaine leslie reininger
lesbos, greece
january 27,2002

Hah. Leaving us, eh? Well, they told me at the university I was mad….ha ha ha!!! We showed them, eh, Dr. Caligari?

Coming of the Euro

December 21, 2001

the empire’s new dough



What did do today, you may ask? Probably not. I went to the bank here on Mytilini. This is worthy of note simply because I purchased a bag of euros, for a piddling 5.000 drachmas. I will now be able to remember the first time I laid eyes and hands on the new coin of the realm. Had a chance to heft it, shake it around, finger it, see how it will handle on the road.

I think that every economy has one coin which is the “shilling” or “florin” of its day. That is, one coin which guarantees for the average street beggar or other soul dwelling at the bottom of the heap a fighting chance at acquiring some piece of indispensable piece of matter. A loaf or bread, a jug of wine, thou.See what I mean? Judging by its design, I wager that the 50 cent piece will become that sort of coin. It is durable, it has serrated edges, it has a secret compartment that is a gateway to a parallel universe. Few people know this, outside the circle of the Illuminati behind this whole thing. I dare not say more.
Out, oh master.

(note from posterity: How could I know that the one euro coin would become the modern florin? It didn’t seem fair at the time. It was too valuable.)

Long Time Gone

December 18, 2001

view from the veranda mytilini
view from the veranda mytilini


Long time gone.

How do I sum up the course of my existence since the last entry in this document? Why should I try.? At the moment, my son is lying on the bed howling. This is not his usual thing.Now I have picked him up. Now the torture and angst  and the great howling anguish of being alive in samsara has ceased for a moment. Now he naps in my lap as I write these words. I am on the island of Lesbos, near the capital city, Mytilini. This is where the boy and his mother now live. I suppose this is where I live as well.

Well, well, welly well, how did old guido end up right where he started from? You may well ask. It has been a hell of a time since last I wrote in here. I have been all over the world, I have up and left to pursue greener pastures and younger women, I have voyaged to the further reaches of my definition of self, and wondered just where the hell I was and how I had arrived there.

As one may gather from other information on this site, I have spent a lot of time in Italy this last year and a half. I have been floating around that country like a lone bean in a turbulent bowl of pasta fagioli. Then I have decided that this boy sitting here in my lap was worthy of my attention and care. Now he sleeps on my chest. Awwwww…..we say. He stinks. I smell infant fecal matter. Thus it goes, I presume. It is certainly tough to concentrate upon sending error messages into the ether when a being so simple and complex demands one’s attention. Oh my oh my does the mind ever go into a giddy whirl to contemplate all of this mortality and birth and re-birth. Enough of this shit.

There are some journal entries later, dating from when I purchased my laptop. Before that all was ignorance and outer darkness.

Here I am, miss me?

Guido in Arezzo

alone in arezzo

19/11/2001 22:06
Guido in Arezzo

In the dressing room in Arezzo, my “spiritual home”. Touring with Gian Luca Lo Presti to promote our CD “Sun and Rain”. Perhaps I have made an error in staying behind here instead of going to the hotel. The music is too loud, the lights too bright. This photo taken by gabrielli the bass player. Blurry, but evocative. Now it’s R.E.M. on the loud louder loudest house system. Me back here with laptop. Earlier I chatted with Isabelle in Belgium and Oleg in Russia while standing at the bar, using the phone line of the club guy who was getting nervous, not sure what the hell I was doing, exactly.

As I have this digital camera I will include photos from now on in these entries. What the hell else am I to do with all of these self -portraits? There you go. I downloaded Microsoft instant messenger or whatever the hell it calls itself. Only because more of the people I know have hotmail addresses. C’est la vie.

Doesn’t bother me to be alone in this overlit cold little cube of a camerino. I have this thing about not wanting to leave the dressing room. In the meantime, I will instruct the spell checker on this program not to be so stupid (camerino is a perfectly good Italian word, no reason to highlight it, waiting for it to turn into English) Maybe I will get a handle on this damn stupid software, maybe not. Who gives a fuck, right?

Now it’s 22:30 and we are supposed to play at 23:00. Oh well, show biz.

I should give this poor beast of a laptop a rest.

I promise myself, I haven’t been obsessed about Susi for at least an hour or so. I have decided that this affair will probably go the way of all flesh. Then she will probably surprise me by being the same when I get back to Berlin. We shall see. Now I will go and see if there are some people here.
In Hindsight

Shit howdy dang, sergeant carter, no one at all, that’s right, not one customer showed up for this show. I got the idea that perhaps I was not backing a winner with the tour of “Sun and Rain”. Easy for me to say now.

It's Just an Old War (Not Even a Cold War)


more fun in airports

Back from Sardinia, sitting in Fiumicino Roma, not my favorite airport in the world, not by a long shot. I have often wondered why absolutely no one refers to this airport by its given name “Leonardo da Vinci International Airport.” Perhaps this joint ain’t classy enough to deserve Leonardo’s name.  The usual drill, waiting to be loaded into a bus to take us to the plane, gwine Firenze.

Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. I suppose I should open the outlook express and see what the hell my address is in San Casciano. whoops. False alarm. Boarding time set back some, pa.

Up in the air, Bullwinkle, up in the air. Underway after a miniature delay. Been settin’ hyar and mah mind is a-wrigglin’ like a ol’ worm in a skillet. There is an anger now present, my face is often drawn up in a sneer, or a resigned, yet disgusted grimace. We on one of them prop jobs they run between Roma and anywhere else in Italy. Little Legoland airport in Firenze. You’d think what with all that cultura and all them touristas and the brits livin’ in Chiantishire they would have a more serviceable port. No such luck. Now plane is rockin’ and rollin’. Turbulence. JJ used to get so nervous over turbulence. She really hated flying, it really scared her.

Welcome, folks, to the Blaine review. I haven’t written about anything but me and my feelings, my feelings and probably won’t. There is a war of sorts on, you know. Thankfully, Europeans mostly couldn’t give a shit. It’s an American thing, remotely embarrasing to most Europeans. They have their own problems. They have been through a war, they have seen their towns blown to smithereens, often by the good old Americans themselves.

They have sifted through rubble for loved ones, been lined up against walls and shot, made heroic last stands in apartment houses or in the hills. The plaques are all over, memories of WW II in particular. I remember finding a sort of war memorial mass grave high up on a hill overlooking Athens while I was bicycling around looking for a promontory from which to view the city and shake my head wearily. There were some decaying headstones, a plaque with something about the men who died defending that hill from Germans. I then remembered a house I happened upon on one of my meanders through Brussels, likewise a place where a desperate band of men, probably young, had fought off the Germans for a moment or two before being obliterated. How strange to imagine those bourgeois streets of Brussels, those smog choked hills of Athens, the stage upon which man’s favorite activity was played out. We just seem to love war. We are on and on about warrior poets, self-sacrifice, the purity of the warrior’s mind, the samurai mysticism, all that bullshit. Now we are climbing from the skies. Landing in other words. off laptop. off

Air Rage

fiumicino, roma


Now we’re in fiumicino again waiting again plane is theoretically going soon. 25 minutes they say. seems like every step of the way at the fag end of a journey like this is another nail in the cross, another thorn in the crown. I mean, there’s me in fucking athens waiting for the inteminable security line, tick tock tick tock, fearing that the plane will leave without me!! dio mio! Porca miseria! (I have been singing “porca miseria” to the tune of “waltzing matilda”. Porca miseria. Porca miseria…..I made an error with the baggage, went to the domestic baggage carousel, was obliged to leave, go back to terminal b, unable to get in to baggage area from ground floor, had to go up one level and re-enter via metal detector, waited and waited for the elevator, went up and down three times, more and more pissed and stressed, sweaty, sweat stains on my shirt, feeling like a sweaty smelly slob, everything has this gnarly edge, back into the baggage claim, terminal B, remember a good kilometer from terminal fucking A. Get my bag which is going around and around on the carousel under the watchful gaze of a bored security guy, lonely cheap chinese bag. Get it, schlep it back to Terminal Fucking A, check it in to domestic departures, then down, around and round through the metal detector and such again, same drill, my belt sets it off. I lost a pack of cigarettes in the x-ray machine since my coat had also to be x-rayed for sharpened toothbrushes. Packin a shiv, boss. Shit, the world has become jail. Fuck Bush and his fucking war. Truly. This is the shape of 21st century war and a spoiled geek like me complains because he loses some time, a swiss army knife, a pair of fingernails clippers, some cigarettes. We’re all desperate to be Normal. Maybe it’s a good thing to give up airplanes. We can all take boats. Then they will sink ‘em like in WWI with the Lusitania and so forth. Who alive now could tell you the first thing about the Lusitana, or the Maine?

Remember….Pearl Harbor, The Maine, 54 40 or fight, fighting soldiers from the sky….those brave men of the green berets, america and its fucking wars, a history of war from the very outset. war war war.

I am well and truly pissed off with this whole drill. I wish it had a single neck so I could hack it through…in the words of caligula.Hack! airport. Hack! check in time taxis sitting in the holding areas waiting to enter the flying corral strapped to a bucket eating swill.

Back to Greece

Ian and dad on Lesbos

November 8 2001

Back to Greece.

Well, shit howdy dang. what a turnup. Here I am onboard a shipbound for Athens out of Mitilini. I am in a cabin seemingly all on my tod with a laptop and plenty of time to kill.

One may smoke here, presumably not be disturbed, something vaguely resembling the writer’s dream situation I might have imagined for myself 20 or 30 years ago. I have reached the lofty age when there are events in my life that long ago. woo hoo. Lamentably, possibly not, no internet from here. there is a phone. perhaps we shall see if that too is possible. If so, nothing but download or send messages. nothing else. I want to call susi in the worst way but now my cellphone thinks it is in turkey.

Now, is it too soon to try and analyze what just went down with Athena and my son?  Let us list some things as they stand now in my non compus mentis. Well, there is the kid. He is very much  boy physically active and macho, rough and tumble, solid square little body proportioned like a man and not a midget.  He is beautiful, he slays everyone he meets, charms all the ladies.  He is bright, presumably he likes me. I think I touched base there. He is a handful, he is exhausting, he is forever into this and that, toddling off in search of some thing sharp or dangerous, he might fall, he might burn himself, he might do this, he might do that. He will also get down and throw a tantrum a la reininger pere over things like not being able to play with a knife. He appears to be musically interested, perhaps talented, surely able to imitate dada when he plays one of Ian’s little instruments. He had a little guitar with fishing line strings made of plastic with an accurate fingerboard and a very reasonable sound which I picked up and played. He has a xylophone with colored keys that strike the bars confined to the key of DO, which is plenty for lots and lots of chords and melodies and which daddy also did virtuouso turns upon. Impressive when he thoughtfully banged one or two keys, registering what I had just done. I played his little drum with plastic head, also quite adequate as an instrument with a mallet and a chopstick. I also used the thumb to tighten and relax the head, making wobbly arabic type beats. In fact I played a lot of araby sounding stuff for him. It seemed the thing to do. He wasn’t all that impressed with the fiddle, eggchewally, perhaps it is too much for him. Not plastic and brightly colored. Endaxi. I entertained him, also not to omit his little blue plastic tambourine upon which I felt obliged to accompany myself on “hava nagila”. It was gratifying to see him imitating old dad on all of the above instruments, down to using a chopstick on the drum as if storing this quick burst of knowledge for future reference. Likewise verbally, my never-ending monologue seemed to have an effect on him and by the time I left he was murmuring in some sort of pre-verbal glossololia. Not yelling, speaking in conversational tones as if likewise delivering a monologue. I taught him to say “ahhhhh” after drinking water and he repeated it. He says DaEEE and Glayne! He says NEE, of course MAMA is in there, mameee, maa ahhh, lots of things. He will be a mama’s boy. He behaved differently around her, more prone to flip when he wanted breast access. She is still breast feeding him a year and a half after fetushood. I suppose she knows best since she is in touch with women in La Leche League and so forth.I was mostly delighted with him. I took pretty much  two whole rolls of film of him, one b&w one color. some good photos. photogenic little guy like da.


And so, on the way out of Mitilini, I realized that Athena could see the boats go by (if you spend the night beside her) on the way out of the harbor, leaving like a cardboard cutout against a painted backdrop in a cheap hollywood epic. I called her on the cellphone as I neared her general area, and installed myself where I would be visible, i.e. against the floodlit white background of the smokestack. I stood there talking to her, she turned the veranda light on and off, I saw her, she saw me, “How’s that for a cinematic good-bye” I said as my ship pulled out.

later that same night ,onboard

This room is just what I needed. The whole damn boat is very far away, I am blissfully alone on the open sea. This typically simian Greek porter or whatever the hell he was came to bring in the dreaded bunkie in this room which is supposed to be a double. I didn’t know we would stop at some other island, but we did and there was the poor guy waiting to come in. This porter was the same geek who led me to this room without offering to carry so much as one of my cigarettes to lighten my load, considerable as always. He came in here and started scolding me like a child and I just said “Enough of you!” I called reception and told them to call him off, give me the other bunk in this room, I would pay. This fool tries to take the phone away from me and talk directly to them and I wave him off. Greece always comes down to these confrontations, more than one such in a year is more than I can stomach, and these sort of things happen all the time.

 After my necessary “assertive” tantrum, my “don’t fuck with me there, stavros” I have this room to my lonesome. Steven is right. This is the way to go. Ship. In a cabin, a floating hotel room, little traffic with the other passengers necessary. Now I should get some sleep. First I must retrieve coti’s new address from my email files. then away.

I Want to Live

Thursday July 5, 2001

Re: I want to Live!

There’s good news and bad news after my visit to the doctor. The good news is the doctor says I am “top fit”, nothing wrong with lungs, liver, heart, cholesterol, and etc. The bad news is that I am “top fit” and must now start to get on with the rest of my life and make a few plans for the future. Sigh. I was nurturing the stupid notion that I was not long for this world. A side effect of grieving and so forth.

Yesterday I went to the general practicioner who drew several vials of fresh guido blood and sent me out for my dreaded CHEST X RAY! I got the x ray which I had to bike back to the doctor and I naturally took a look. I saw some white stuff which looked like it didn’t belong in my lungs, so I was convinced that this was it. I smelled the grim reaper’s foul breath. My friend Chris said that I had “A Woody Allen moment.” He was right. Some time later the doctor told a pale shaky me that the white stuff was plaque in my arteries, evidently nothing to get too worried about and that aside from the fact that I SHOULD QUIT SMOKING VERY SOON, my lungs were okay. I wept for joy outside her office. I was surprised to find out how much I actually want to live. Live and learn.

I also went to the eye doctor yesterday for a complete exam including the eye drops and so forth and the touching of my eye ball to determine pressure in my eye, which makes me squirm and writhe. I rode back to my apt. on my bike with my pupils opened WIDE by the drops and my eyeballs numb from the local anesthetic they contained. That was a very strange feeling, numb eyeballs. The feeble watery rays of the Berlin sun were like the glare of Jehovah’s throne, and I had to ride the bike in the shadows up on the sidewalk.

Now it’s time for old guido to wear bifocals. Damn.

Thus, I have taken advantage of my German health insurance to find out that I am in good shape for a man my age. I intend to quit smoking. Enough is enough and I want to continue the re-write of my life which started with getting off the booze and other recreational chemicals which fucked up my 20’s and 30’s. Old man on a bicycle, tobacco booze and dope free out seeking some kind of happiness. Seems incredible but true.”

I told Susi of this news and I wept for joy, the first bout of cathartic weeping I have had in a long long time.

So there you have it. I see the possibility of actually having a life, clearing my mind of all intoxicants (except my beloved caffeine) and attempting some sort of frontal assault on the stool and mucous carnal illusion, attempting to work up to my potential in the creative fields I have slung myself into like a ball of dough into hot lard.

(editor’s note. There is more to come…)

Opening Night

Das Lied vom Tod

Saturday June 23, 2001

Opening night was well attended and everything went well. I had a mild case of jitters, I found myself walking through the role in a strange depersonalized manner. I was an outside observer watching me do my thing onstage. that is the reason for all of that rehearsal. the object is to become zombie like in one’s ability to present a character irregardless of physical or mental state. as the performances continue I am more at home and in the role. Acting is like an existential exercise for me. It is a competition bewixt me and some ideal of perfection, and or a challenge I set myself, to perform actions in a detached and zen like manner. does this make sense? first, of course I invest the character with a portion of my soul energy and it lives in some back part of my brain where it can be accessed every night.

the first night i found myself pissed off leaving the stage. this is because I was told to play the part in a less sympathetic manner, the character is a real dickhead, a murdering sadistic swine. I summoned up some good vile negative energy and it took a while for it to pass away into my “real self”.

I don’t usually go on about acting, I don’t consider myself an actor, but as time goes on and I work in more theatre I am becoming one. I talk about “my character” in a detached manner. I want to work hard to preserve my “beginner’s mind” in this field. I do like this acting stuff. I find it a hell of a lot more rewarding than working with the bottom feeding scum who litter the music business, playing in stale beer smelling squalid holes, the whole drill. the play is like being in a big congenial school, a group of ne’er do well bit players. We were looking out at the fairly small crowd last night (the weather is shit cold) and I joked about how we were like some gypsy troupe. “look giorgos, ten people, we eat tonight!”

sorry I have avoided other life issues, I am buzzing in show biz land. things on my own personal emotion horizon are fairly benign at the mo. feeling good is good enough for me…..good enough for me and and bobbi mcgee.

Olive Loves Popeye

Thursday, June 7, 2001

Dear Carolyn,

I wish I could answer your question about meditation. I also find myself unable to spend any time in meditation and sipping from the ever-flowing spring of nectar which gushes forth from Shiva’s head, but hey, I never much liked drinking from someone’s dreadlocks anyway.

I do think that to every thing, turn, turn, turn, there is a season etc. That is to say I think that provided I keep the fundamental things in mind (life is carnal illusion, desire is suffering, ego is fantasy, olive loves popeye) I can just take it for a given that I can’t meditate just now. All things must pass. And so on. This is a Sufi notion as well, we construct the scaffolding of our belief from the materials available to us AT THE TIME; we must just try to avoid becoming attached to any particular edifice when it is time to move on. Make sense?

Presumably there will come a time, if not in this incarnation, in the next when this soul shall dedicate itself to endless contemplation of the godhead and not be distracted by mundane considerations. It is liberating in the extreme to consider that there is really no hurry as long as I don’t bitch when I have to go through this mess again because I was too lazy to resolve it this time around.

Oh, blah blah blah. You ask why, if Berlin is so great, I will return to Italy? Well, this is just a matter of prior commitments, work wise. It becomes ever clearer that this is a dynamic city full of possibilities, resources, opportunities and that I like it in spite of the weather. Why, just the other day I was in an absurdly well-equipped public library. After the deserts of Brussels and the non existence of such resources in Athens, you can understand why I was enthralled. How long since I have been able to have access to information or reading material without purchasing it myself!

I close now. Having come to the conclusion that brevity is the core of things in this medium, I go ahead and rattle on anyway.

Reading from a computer is like eating at McDonald’s, the memory fades almost immediately upon consumption, often before.

Buffalo Schneider


Buffalo Schneider (Kirsten Schneider)

Saturday June 6, 2001

Another day another deutschmark. I woke early, cycled down to the local watering hole where a free internet connection lives, ordered my daily Milchkaffee (cafe latte to you) and there you go.

Last night was a run through of the play. We open Wednesday (june 20). We had the horses, chickens, real guns firing blanks, make up, and the pyrotechnics. Yes, at one point they blow up a coke machine. The girls are all wearing wigs, the narrator whom we call “Buffalo Schneider” is made up like Buffalo bill in a costume with gold chaps containing white LED’S.

After much strutting and fretting in an armored ham manner, I must die in this play as well. I must lie motionless with a harmonica stuck in my mouth until I rise to sing a duet with one of the greek boys. We do “rock and roll suicide” by bowie and then we return to the dead. I, of course, had lots of practice being dead for hours at a time in Agamemnon so this is nothing, nothing I tell you.

When the chickens are onstage, held aloft by a chorus line of spanish dancers wearing huge mustachios and wigs, they talk about how frank, my character, started his career as a cold blooded killer by killing more chickens than his family could eat. I then give “the chickenspeech” in german where I tell of my delight in killing a nine year old boy at the begining of the film. When I shoot him, a chicken jumps on his neck and pulls out a vein, drags it across the farmyard for 12 meters. whoo hoo. big fun for the whole family.

enough. the coffee is kicking in and I am getting long winded.

A Rogue's Life

Susi Claus

Thursday, May 24, 2001
to: steven brown
re: a rogue’s life

howdy zippy,

been working like the big dog. they got me singin and dancin and doin all kindsa stuff including playing the git-tar. what a hoot to play that theme from “once upon a time in the west” with a blazing guitar, wearing a cowboy hat.

At this writing I am in a bit of a state. There is this Susi, who is 25 and is sweet, affectionate, sexy, can’t get enough of old guido for some reason. Steffi found out because I told her, unable to lie, or at least 100%.


To tell the truth, though it pains me, I wanted out of this thing with her. She was getting strange, I was getting stranger, there was a lonely and sad element there that began to increase as my time in Italy wore on. In the end, the sex which was a large part of my dickhead reason for getting so involved began to dry up and I began to feel very strange indeed.

The issues this raises are perplexing. Am I getting out because I am a regular dickhead man who loves ’em and leaves ’em, or is it just that not every relationship is the girl of my dreams and there is no reason beneficial to both parties to keep it going?

Big issues raised here, old bean. At the outside, I am learning something about how this “love thang” works. I am also learning that I don’t have the stuff to be a casanova. It is too damn hard to play three woman at the same time unless they are likewise unattached and “carefree”. There is a state of being and/or lifestyle known as “polyamorousness” or something like that. In this fairly sleazy approach, one is ever capable of having several partners, caring for them all, while avoiding the necessary deceptions, heartbreaks, all of that trash contingent upon quasi-monagomous attachments. If in the pursuit of this, I hurt others, I will pay the price. shit.

Confused, but still happy. susi is marvelous. Steffi is hurt. I feel bad, but I must be as true as I can be to myself without becoming an absolute cretin.

Tuxedomoon, no problem. Got lots of new ideas, new gear, performing onstage will be good for my work with youse dudes, no doubt. Have no fear.

as ever,


Obst Und Gemüse

Sunday May 20, 2001

now i am in a cafe called “obst and gemuse” fruit and vegetables in the former east now called “mitte” meaning center. this terminal is free free, you just have to wait for people to get finished.
got your mail while riding my bike out on the streets of berlin. this particular woman is away for the weekend, I have a day off…damn. work tomorrow. saw a guy playing sax on the bridge with the sun going down on the spree (local river which used to mark the frontier). he was a jammin with another guy making for some pretty cinematic sunset scenes. not only but also. we got to talkin, guy turned out to be american, blah blah blah, i was in a band called tuxedomoon, ever heard of ’em.

“tuxedomoon!!!!!! wow, just singing no tears yesterday. I was looking for a miracle and here it is!!!”


now back home to take a nap and or sleep. I await further sms messages from susi. she said we (our little fling) remind her of last tango in paris. hmmm…..old geek with dead wife and young geekess. add one pack of butter. lord lord. life do go at de hectic pace.

luc will mos’ likely come for rehearsal, recording, not for gigs. we shall see.

love and bratwurst.