THE TAINTED LOVE OF A BASKETCASE
(Back in Holland)
After the five-countries-in-one-day travel rally, we all sleep in late and awake in typical Dutch budget lodgings, familiar from our tour’s naïve beginnings. Clean but simple, bathroom and shower down the hall, breakfast downstairs. Everyone’s well rested, and given the two months plus change length of our mission, we’re in pretty good shape.
Everyone is playin’ it cool. There are only three shows left. The finish line is in sight, illuminated by the light at the end of the tunnel. Best now to avoid all possible confrontations and potential friction-creating situations. We’re all one big dysfunctional family, trying to get through the holidays together without killing one another. The knife is only supposed to be used to carve the turkey.
Z, Simon, and I stroll around the town of Enschede, spending the day as relaxed tourists might, window shopping, sampling the local version of Mexican cuisine, trying the local beer. Watching the world go by from a tavern window, conversation is small talk strung together with unmapped realms of soothing silence. Simon interrupts the placidity.
“Why didn’t Ratboy come along, then? I’m going to miss the Ratboy.”
“Sure you are,” I reply, trying to stir things up a bit. (What the hell? Please pass the carving knife.) “He’s good for procuring the real blondes.”
“Oh, come on,” Simon shoots back. “That’s not fair. He wasn’t interested in that girl.”
“He brought her back to the hotel for something.”
“Well, he has to get on it, then, or else it’s fair game.”
“Anything for some pussy passing in the night, eh? Dude, you sold him down the river, for a girl! The trust of the road dogs was betrayed for the promise of wagging tail. For shame!”
“Bros, not hos,” clarified Z, our man of few words.
“Oh, Rat doesn’t think like that. He doesn’t give a shit,” exclaimed Simon, who nonetheless seemed to be considering the possibility of us being correct.
“Where is he then? Where is the littlest Rat? You sold him down the river for a two-bit Scandinavian one-nighter. Damn!”
Simon now seems truly dejected, fine by me. He has perhaps gone through the most changes as a result of the Master and Factsheet’s mental abuse. From hero of the masses to slave driver to slave to Dudley Moore-like buffoon, his transition and repositioning has been exceptionally harsh. We have done nothing to make it easier for him to emerge on the other side. When we were first in Holland, what seems so long ago now, we openly proclaimed through the public address system that he was God! As such, one would suppose he had the farthest to fall. It’s hard to be so completely dysfunctional so consistently, but we try.
Z and I saddle up for a friendly game of chess in the bar, which is perfect for letting time speed by and obtaining a heightened sense of relaxation. It is the chosen game of the Rip Van Winkle set. Simon is more restless than ever. “Don’t play that, you bloody lot are so slow. It’ll take all day!”
“Fine, let it,” says Z.
“We don’t have any pressing engagements with the Pope,” I add.
“Bloody hell.” He sits in the corner and sulks, until a local catches his attention and then he’s fine again.
I beat Z at the first game, which I’ve never done before. We begin round two, while Z and I review some of the past two month’s escapades. Worst gig: Montargis. Oslo a close second, though much warmer. Best gig: hmm, not quite so hands down. Toulouse? Madrid? Helsinki, perhaps?
“With shows like Madrid and Toulouse, isn’t half of it the events that surrounded the show, the girls, the clubs, the dancing?” wonders Z.
“No. More than half,” I estimate. “The tour is about the adventure. The exploration of the unknown.”
“What about the music?”
“The music is the thread that tenuously binds the whole thing together. The music is the excuse for obtaining a passport.”
“Hey, listen. It’s nothing to me. I came along for the ride and made no pretense about it. I’ve never listened to Jeff Dahl records and really don’t anticipate an upswing in that activity upon my return home. But, you seem to be saying, in a situation such as this, the music isn’t as important as the time spent goofing off, chasing girls, getting drunk, looking for heroin, cruising red light districts, discovering local culinary delights...”
“Drinking and whoring!” I clarify for us both. “Say it. Revel in it! The music can’t be as important. Our art—if that term applies—provides the reason, the excuse, and the commerce—if that term applies and that condition exists. But the adventures will ultimately provide the next collection of art, the new music, the new batch, the future inspiration. The adventures provide the memories. Presumably, we already know the music. Once that music makes its way to magnetic tape, it’s already been lived, digested, rewritten, rethought, and it’s as fresh as yesterday’s papers. The artist is really the only one who knows this, the public will still perceive it as new, and hopefully, if everything works right, the hype will breath new life into it, interest will spark, and then the geezer in question can mount another tour and continue the charade another year. See, the important thing is to continue to live full speed with your eyes open so you continue to have something to write about.”
“Checkmate.”
The evening’s show is being opened by a fine young band called Five Man Vomit. I leave the main concert hall to retain what’s left of my hearing, and walk past our new T-shirt salesman, Simon. He looks down.
“I love the road, but I have to admit, I can’t wait to get home and see Melanie.”
“I know, champ, I know.” I pat him on the back and walk on.
As I walk past the bar, I notice sitting there is six feet of Germanic beauty going by the name of Rheinheld. “It’s my favorite bass player,” she says as I approach.
I had been wondering if one of my German dahlings would turn up before the big bird launched me back to Yankeeville. The tall, sleek, and demure Rheinheld had said she would while the card-wielding Elke offered up a maybe. Despite the prevailing mood of the group that dictated an attempt to return to normal (non-road) behavior, I was nonetheless happy to see her.
“C’mon upstairs,” I invite. “It’s a little more quiet. We have No Man Vomit up there.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
I learn my lovely friend from Munster is twenty-eight and working on graduating from business classes in college. She has a two-year-old son named Nick, her reason for living. Daddy is a German rocker with a dope habit and little desire to be called “poppa.” She carries the weight with seeming ease, although just past the “everything’s alright” façade, the hardship and heartache is visible if one cares to look. She is soft yet strong, smooth but tough, chiseled with determination.
We pile into the van after the show. Taller than any of the guys on the tour, Rheinheld pulls herself onboard and asks: “Is there room for a leetle German girl?” She does have style.
After off-loading to the hotel, Rheinheld, Simon, and I walk to a nearby bar for all-night drinking and dancing. Simon buys us a drink, we toast, and Rheiny pulls me off to the dance floor. It’s terribly crowded with Dutch yuppie types, and the music isn’t very good (when Soft Cell’s version of the Ed Cobb masterpiece “Tainted Love” comes on, it’s actually a relief), but there seems to be nothing else shakin’ Thursday night in Enschede Rock City, so you learn to go with the flow.
Following almost every dance, Rheiny grabs me and pulls me close for kissing. Then she hugs and squeezes. Nice girl, but methinks she’s been a little under par in the receiving-affection department, maybe about a quart low. I can relate, but honey, lemme come up for air.
Simon orders up another round. “You’re doing alright,” he says, nodding discreetly toward Rheiny. “Huh? Yeah, yes, right.”
“Something wrong, McGruff? Too much of a good thing, perhaps?”
“I don’t know. Hey, you ever see that movie, The Man Who Knew Too Much?
“No.”
“Well, they killed him in the end.”
“I see. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Thanks for the drink.”
Around four in the morning we leave. Simon seems all detached and spaced out again, like he’s going to return to his static-watching robot state of mind. He insists on going off his own way, and walks the opposite direction of our hotel by himself.
“Iz he always like that?” asks Rheiny.
“No, only about a third of the time, I’d estimate.”
We walk to her car parked nearby, and find it’s been broken into during the night.
“I can’t believe it. There was nothing in it. It looks like they took my jacket. Shit, I’ll have to get a new window.”
I felt sorry for her, but in a sick sort of way, the incident made me long for home. In L.A., cars are routinely broken into and nothing stolen, as if thieves just feel the need to keep their chops up.
It’s around 4:30 in the morning, and we’re back at my hotel room, a single for the night, as it turns out. The radiator is cranked and one lamp glows in the corner. Rheiny, now stripped down to her black bra and panties, requests the use of my toothbrush. Of course, help yourself.
“My God, look at this thing! It looks like you’ve been repairing cars with it!”
“Well, it’s been a long tour, you know.”
“Believe it or not, they sell toothbrushes in Europe.”
“Really? I thought they were strictly American commodities, like brooms, coherent directions, and Michael Bolton.”
“Shut up, you.” She put her arms around me, and we tumbled on down.
The night surrenders to dawn with relative ease, soft pillow talk, and good old-fashioned lovin’ carrying us through until the morning.
“It’s been a long time since someone’s truly been kind and loving to me,” she whispers.
“It’s nothing, really. Much less than you deserve. You’re without a doubt the coolest person I’ve met in Europe. By far.”
“Yet, despite how much you seem to like me, I can tell from leetle sings that you do that your heart truly belongs to anozer. You have a girlfrien’ waiting at home, don’t you?”
It’s my personal belief that women, while frequently cited as being feline in nature, have an equal amount of canine qualities. A woman can smell another woman on your clothes like a bloodhound, and can spot one lurking around in your heart like a wolf.
“Yes, you’re correct. I’ll be back at her side in a matter of days.”
“I sense you actually feel gill-tee about what we do.”
“You might say I’m an honorary Catholic. I guess I wish I’d gotten together with you way back in Münster instead of three days before departure. Time helps soften the guilt, eases ya back into the normality of your daily routine.”
“I don’t mean to make you feel bad,” she says softly, with genuine understanding and caring.
Her eyes seem to glow, illuminated by the rising sun shining through the window. I pull myself on top of her lengthy frame, and I’m literally swimmin’ in wimmen. I’ve decided to feel bad, guilty, and weighed down with regret about all of this tomorrow. For right now, lemme enjoy this tainted love.
Rheinheld departs after breakfast, which is followed by the usual interrogation from my travel mates, “Didja, didja?” A gentleman never tells, at least not until he gets a publisher.
Why did I go through with it, a mere two gigs before I’m back in the arms of my one true love? Vanity, that’s way up there, and proving to myself I could make the relatively (in most normal cases) simple acquisition of what the commoners and proletariats call groupie, which I call sanctuary and respite. But at a quarter to midnight, my timing, in life as in music, is not the greatest. Why didn’t we just go to the club, do a little dancing, have a couple cocktails, hell, make out a little bit, and then call it a morning? I just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Never the greatest liar, how will this serve when I return home? Best not to dwell on this now. Best to push it under the old denial throw rug.
We snake our way to Sneek (pronounced “snake”), another nondescript Dutch town. I room once again with Z, and we choose to veg out all day in the hotel room and watch television. Bands crossing the greater United States take television for granted. There’s no Twilight Zone on at 2:00 a.m. in Holland. There’s no porno channel on your hotel television in Switzerland. You don’t even have a television in Spain. Okay, the U.S. is too uptight for titty game shows, but believe me, you’re better off with cable.
Sneek is even less socially advanced than Enschede. At least Enschede had a few other establishments besides the one we were playing at to go out to—the same claim could not be made in Sneek. Following the less-than-eventful gig, we returned to our comfy beds and our hung-on-the-wall television. Immediately getting dressed for bed (Z still with his nightshirt and cap), we happily gawk blankly at our beaming fourteen-inch color friend.
A knock at the door reveals a surprise guest: Jeff Dahl, his own bad self. “Hey, I nabbed this homegrown weed from a guy at the show last night. Want to smoke some?”
“Sure.”
Dahl rolls a joint with Z’s cigarette rolling papers, fires it up, sucks in a big hit, and passes it to Z.
“No thanks.”
It comes my way. I take a huge toke, and pass it to Dahl. He takes another puff, as do I, and we sit back for a moment. Our television spews forth some dependable Friday night softcore, which seems to inspire Jeff to want to return to his private room.
“Thanks, Jeff,” I holler after him. “Oh, hey, the rest of your joint!”
“Keep it, polish it off. You guys have a good night.”
“You see?” I say to Z. “The Master is good deep down. Sometimes his leadership responsibilities get him a little mixed up, that’s all.”
“He sure likes to rush back to his own room once the naked girls hit the screen,” notes Z with a sly smile.
“Let every man relieve his personal pressure as he best sees fit. Me, I’m gonna fire up this reefer and let some brain cells roam free. Sure you don’t want any?”
I puff away on the handmade mind melter, drifting through various stages of consciousness. The day had been so dedicated to relaxation and nothingness that it wasn’t difficult to wind all the way down and drift off to sleep. Soon, flashing visions of a race of Amazonian/Aryan princesses wielding bayonets, reptilian super models, and Ratboy in a toga fly about within the confines of my rapid eye movements.
DREAM SEQUENCE
The sea of atrocities part and there, on the throne of all knowledge, sits the Lord, whadiya know? The Lord’s a skirt! She looks just like...just like...
Gina!
“You’ve been a bad boy, haven’t you?” boomed the austere, angry voice, made all the more menacing with some added digital delay. “You couldn’t wait THREE MORE DAYS. You’ve been a regular asshole, a typical...MALE.” The word “male” echoed with Wall of Sound precision.
END DREAM SEQUENCE
I jerk awake. Damn, some strong-ass weed. I rise to take a piss in our microscopic adjoining bathroom, and notice Z sleeping soundly. I look at myself in the mirror. Let’s see, sunken, weary, bloodshot eyes, highlighted by huge black circles, patchy skin, pale complexion, dark roots in my hair a few inches long. Glamour isn’t dead. Hey, wait a minute. I’ve forgotten how to piss. Ah, here we go. Damn it, now I can’t stop. Okay, okay, there, everything’s cool. Shit, was Dahl trying to get me high or poison me?
Returning to bed, I roll on my side and try to go back to sleep. Suddenly, the arm I’m laying on goes numb. I roll on my back and grab my right numb arm with my good left arm. Shaking it, I can’t seem to get any feeling in it at all. I give up and lie on my back. Hang on, now I can’t feel either arm. I have no arms! What the fuck?!?
A heightened awareness of impending paranoia overtakes me, as I sense my own doom and demise lurking just under the bed. My head is spinning, and I’m busting into a cold sweat. Shit, now I can’t feel my legs. I’m limbless, a literal basket case. I have trouble catching my breath and I try to stand up. Though I can’t feel my legs, they seem to work, and I go back to the bathroom and try to splash water on my face. My rubber arms don’t want to respond at first, but after a few tries and much water everywhere I manage to complete the Herculean task.
I sit down on the toilet and try to compose myself. What the hell was in that stuff? Was it the marijuana itself, or is it the preceding two months of mishap and mayhem, fear and submission, swelling up inside of me to be purged once and for all? It’s as if all of this poison is begging to be squeezed from the whitehead of my soul. Could it be same said soul screaming to off-load the needless baggage I’ve accrued along our fitful journey? Is it the actual substance of death, that which has been like a hellhound on our trail since day one, rolled and squeezed into cigarette form? Or is it merely the most mind-ripping sweat leaf just in from Amsterdam, waiting to either imprison you or set you free, daddio?
I try to lie down again, and I still feel mighty weird. What’s the worst that could happen? This could be the early signs of a heart attack, in which case I’ll probably check out for good in this nothing hotel in this nowhere town. Most likely, though, I’ll just have more fitful dreams and wake up recovered and ready to meet and greet our final Saturday night of rock ‘n’ roll glory head on.
Our hotel for my final night in Europe is probably the fanciest and most modern of the tour. Huge lobby, luxurious rooms with fancy drapes and velvet bedspreads make us feel like traveling royalty. The only eyesore in evidence is our van, which hasn’t been washed once during the tour. Dahl’s theory is, if it looks filthy and trashed, no one will think there’s anything valuable in it. I offered that all the accumulated scum provided a protective coating as well, a shield of gritty armor for our trusty friend.
I’m sharing with Z for the final time. He and Ratboy will return to Switzerland tomorrow. Rat has arranged for them to stay with his sister and get some R & R (rest and relaxation instead of rock and roll) for a few days before flying back to the States. I think in a way Z would rather just head back, see Rita, and cruise the streets of Hollywood in his big blue Cadillac. In fact, speaking of the lovely Rita, as we sit in our room, Z frantically tries to reach his bleached-blonde beauty back home.
“Bitch!” He slams the phone down.
“What’s wrong?”
“Every fucking time I call, she’s gone. Please leave a message at the sound of the tone. It’s hard enough to even get through with these stupid phones.”
“So she’s out doing something. What do you expect?”
“She shouldn’t be out having so much...FUN. I’m not!”
“Oh, come on. Let the girl kick up her heels a bit. You’re so Italian. Besides, forget that, we have a few hours off, we’re gonna take the train to Amsterdam.”
As in Paris, our tour didn’t quite stop in the big city. We were in an outlying burg called Haarlem, a cheery-enough place with nothing much to do. No point in spending the day doing the Haarlem Shuffle when Amsterdam was only twenty minutes away by train.
Simon, Z, and I take a cab to the train station. Simon literally beams with joy. He’s going to meet his precious Melanie at the station in Amsterdam, symbolic confirmation to him that his ordeal with the likes of us is all but over. Soon he would be back home, spinning records in the local clubs, drinking strong Dutch beer, and romancing his sweetheart.
“I’m going to ask her to marry me, you know?” he had told me in a German hotel room.
“You, the king of road poontang? Gonna settle down and be Jimmy Stewart?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ve had enough of this. I’d like to get a job in the business, you know, managing a band or something like that, yeah, I’d fancy a bit of that. Do you think I’d be good at it?”
“I don’t know. Would you like to be strapped to a desk and a phone twelve hours a day to earn fifteen percent of nothing? I don’t know. I have a hard time imagining you settling down.”
“You’ll see.”
Simon meets his true love and the theoretical future Mrs. Easton at the station. Pointing me and Z in a direction, the two of them quickly go their own way. The train station in Amsterdam opens up directly to what seems like a whole new world. Offensive, contemporary storefronts and theaters collide with old-world architecture along the main boulevard, as if it has always been that way. Canals crisscross, and everywhere people buzz by, a mix of every nationality, some residents, some just passing through, some hustling, some taking snapshots. A lot of shady types approach us and offer up every type of drug imaginable.
“Want speed? You like skag? China white? I got the best. “Hashish, my American friend? Good trips. How about an ounce? You looking for some coke?”
We practically had to cut through these guys with machetes, they were so thick. “No, go away.” With our hair and clothes giving us away as potential dope-gulping lowlifes, the dealers just kept on approaching us. Someone could actually make some money printing up No, we don’t want any drugs T-shirts. We kept on passing these specialized street merchants by, more interested in taking in the glorious sights of this historical city and snapping photos like the other tourists.
It was a city built on sin, notorious for its hash bars, red light district, sex emporiums, and anything goes legal system. A playground of ill repute, Amsterdam was a revered stop on any self-respecting rock ‘n’ roll tour, a place where you could get high, get laid, and get away with it. You just needed a little pocket fuel.
Indeed, we were low on money. But we were also short on desire. It’d been over nine weeks of sustained disquiet and prolonged, cramped travel. We’d been in the back of the Renault for so much incalculable time that our legs were practically frozen in a permanent sitting position. Normal walking was actually uncomfortable. When free time was afforded us, and we were actually in a place where there might be some trouble to get into, we’d already spent so much time and energy swilling beer, scrounging for illicit substances, and sniffing around for stray night crawlers that now, at the end of it all, that sort of desperate thrill-seeking had lost its appeal. We were Mom and Pop America seeking not amorous thrills and mind-bending euphoria, but rather a good, long look at the town square and the graceful waters of the canals. We were through with debauchery and had surrendered to tourism.
With our cheesy little map of Amsterdam, procured at the train station, we look for something to do and how to get there. Deciding on the Van Gogh museum, we begin to make our way across town, choosing to walk instead of cabbing it. We want to see the sights and, honestly, we still need to save money. As has been typical throughout our sojourn, we get lost. Crossing a street with our eyes upwards looking for a street name we can locate on the map, we are practically mowed down by three elderly women speeding by on bicycles. I don’t know if we’ll ever get used to these manic Dutch bike riders.
“Bike lane! Look out!” they yell as they whisk by. Another guy on a bike notices our dilemma, rides up and shows us on our map how to get where we’re going. A mere mile off target, we trek off for our destination once we’re back on track.
It’s a somber stroll indeed through the three floors of the Van Gogh museum. The place is arranged so that you walk past the Dutch master’s works in chronological order—hence, you can visually observe his dissent into madness and dementia as you go. His paintings get more three-dimensional as they progress, with the paint piled on in spots so thick it extends from the canvas. As at the Louvre, we are humbled in the presence of true brilliance. We realize that we are just journeymen hacking away within the disposable world of pop music. Walking back toward the train, we stop for a beer at an outdoor café. A bit weary from our extended hike, the cool air, sunny day, and cold beer make for a relaxed moment, soon to be interrupted by a young street musician in tattered jeans.
“How ‘bout it, lads, a gilder for your request?” he beckons.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, mate,” I inform. “We can’t afford cab fare. We’re poor musicians, too.”
“You can afford beer!” he sneers, turning to accost the next sucker.
A casual stroll back to the train relaxes us even more. We look around for Simon and Melanie, but there’s no sign of them, so we hop the train back to Haarlem. Half-sleep on the train, a thought crosses my mind.
“Hey, Z. What’s the name of our hotel?”
“Um, I dunno, beats me. Don’t you know?”
“No. Maybe I have it written down. Let me look in my wallet.”
Precious little money, a bar receipt, a guitar pick, Elke and Rheinheld’s phone numbers, but nothing from our current digs. “Do you remember where it was from the train station?” I ask my friend.
“No, not really.”
All this way, all this time on tour, so responsible, never missed a gig or a sound check, and now we’re separated from the pack and we can’t remember where the pack is. In the Haarlem station, I decide we should try and call the club and ask them if they know where the band is staying. Somehow, we recalled the name of the club.
“Let me see if I can get my calling card to work here,” I say to Z when we learn that neither of us has any change acceptable to this payphone. First try, disconnected. Second try, no answer. Third try, operator doesn’t understand English. Fourth try, operator does understand English, but doesn’t accept my card. She gives me another number to call that will allow for ATT.
“What number do you want, sir?”
“The Patronaat, a nightclub in Haarlem.”
“Here you go.”
A message machine says a lot of Dutch stuff with the name Jeff Dahl recognizable amidst it all. Right club, at least. I repeat the procedure and ask the operator if there is an office number for the club. One ring. Two, three, and four.
“Hallo.”
“Sprecken Zee Anglais?”
“English, yah, a little. Yes?”
“I need to know the name of the hotel where the Jeff Dahl Band is staying, please.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Please hold.” Silence. “Are you a fan of Jeff? He’ll be here soon enough for sound check.”
“No, no. I’m in the band. I’m here in Haarlem, and I can’t remember where the hell we’re staying.”
“You should have already checked in by now,” said the voice on the other end of the line, trying to be helpful.
“I have checked in. Me and the drummer went to Amsterdam and we can’t find the hotel. We don’t remember what it was called.”
“Amsterdam, oh yass. I understand. The hotel is the Zuid.”
“Huh?”
“Zuid.”
“You’re a life saver. You got an address on this place?”
“Zuid. On Toekanweg. Any driver will know.” Crises averted, and we return to Zuid barely on time for our last-ever sound check.
This night, our opening act is a Spanish all-girl rock group named—I’m not making this up—Chicas del Rock. They have mediocre songs but play and sing much better than average. And they’re cute, too, which doesn’t hurt. All of our entourage, a meager five with Tim gone and no local promoters traveling with us, enjoy them as we waste time around Patronaat.
Our show is, well, another show. We play just about every song we know, using most of the same spoken introductions, do most of the same cover songs, do the same pogo choreography in the Vibrators’ “Baby Baby,” pull the same silly faces, make the same rock poses, leave the planet on another improvisational flight through “Dirt,” play “Living in Lisa’s World” faster than ever before, lay on the floor under blankets of feedback, and say goodnight for the final time.
Remember Eric and Charles from France, who first visited us in Eeklo, Belgium? They ended up coming to five shows along the way between Holland, France, and Belgium. They have tonight traveled to Amsterdam for their fifth Jeff Dahl concert in two months. They seem like family now. It’s always a pleasure when they come around. As fanatical as they are, they’re pretty down to earth, normal guys that just happen to be rock ‘n’ roll nuts.
“You guys are the greatest. I wish there was something special we could do for you,” I offer.
“Do you guys drink? There’s some wine. None of us drink wine,” says Jeff.
“Wait a minute. Let’s do something really special,” says Rat. “I’ll be back in a second.”
Rat gets the keys to the van and returns with the double-large pillow stolen from the Uden hotel that has served as cushion, pacifier, and friend since the beginning of our travels. “I want to give you something that has meant a lot to us. We’ve outgrown it now. You should have it. It is an eternal symbol of the Jeff Dahl tour...”
“Of the Euro-Blur experience,” adds Z.
“Of Eeklo nights and Ravensburg days,” I contribute.
Dahl shakes his head, convinced his band has the loosest screws of any musical ensemble around. Eric and Charles stare at their present with bemusement. It’s not exactly something you’d take home and put on your mantle. They probably couldn’t care less about this mangy pillow, but they accept it graciously in the spirit in which it was given.
Down the hall, Chicas del Rock celebrates the birthday of their bass player. They are all boisterous and outgoing, sexy in the way only Spanish women can be. Their dressing room is packed with them and their friends. We are warmly welcomed to join in the party. Tequila slammers with champagne are the drug of choice, and soon pain and woe are things of the past, just vague memories.
“Do you get a bit of a dyke vibe from these chicks?” Simon whispers to me.
“Maybe. Don’t know. Don’t care really. They’re nice girls. Lesbians need love, too, you know.”
“You have a point. I think I’m going to miss you a bit, McGruff.”
“I’m gonna miss you, too, Scarecrow. Ah, hell, don’t get all weepy on me now. You’ll be in Los Angeles looking for a record company job before you know it. We’ll hit Sunset Boulevard right between the eyes.”
“You, Blondie. Have another slammer,” the voluptuous singer beckons me. I oblige, and as was far from uncommon at this point of Euro-Blur, my world was becoming somewhat blurry. Turn off the light on your way out, love.
Someone told one of the girls I worked at a record company back in the States, and suddenly I am having phone numbers thrust at me and promises that fabulous tapes chock full of original hit tunes will be crossing my desk upon my return. In the meantime, please keep the tequila coming. By 2:00 a.m., the party is waning and we are loading the van for the final time.
I was almost packed when the wake-up call sounded. I gulp my tea and throw the last few items in my bag. Rat comes in the room.
“Well, McGruff. It’s been gay, that’s for sure. I guess I’ll see you next time you’re in New York.”
“That you will, Mr. Ratboy. That you will. Take care of Z in Switzerland. It may not be that obvious, but he’s primed and ready to topple over the edge.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” he laughed. Rat, the sensible one, the calm one, the even-keeled, the dour, the wry-humored. I’ll most definitely miss him, his calming presence, his self-deflating jokes, his firm grip on reality, his grasp of the cosmic laugh that is the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle.
“Okay, McGruff. Here we go.” It was Dahl, rallying his dwindling troops one last time. I leap up on the still-slumbering Z’s bed and jump up and down, with him in-between my feet.
“See ya back at home, Z. Try not to be too depressed stuck here in Europe one more week.” He laughed. I left.
Simon was already gone, figuratively. Melanie was with us so he was already back at home in his mind. He gave me his address and a hug, waving goodbye as Dahl and I headed into the terminal to be shipped back home like so much damaged baggage.