the myth of the king of pop

It has been said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Well with the untimely passing of Michael Jackson, I think there is TRULY only one thing burning in everyone's mind.

The jury is still out on this one... way the fuck out, in fact.

Who is Corey Feldman's next man crush. My guess... David Blaine. Just a hunch.

R.I.P. Michael. You were amazing.

the myth of the rainbow gathering

The rumors I have always heard about the Rainbow Gathering have always made me want to see the truth for myself. From mostly second and third hand accounts I gathered that it was a hippy festival where money was not allowed and bartering was the only way to purchase anything. I heard of kitchens built by hand where all of the food is free for those who attend. I also heard of thousands of naked women tripping their faces off and dancing to drum circles. I figured that most of the descriptions of the Gathering were bullshit, sort of like the third hand accounts of Amsterdam, but after I finally went to a Gathering and saw it first hand, I honestly still didn’t understand what I was seeing.

I was in Colorado and planning to move to Brooklyn in the summer of 2003. The week before the 4th of July I was having a few beers with my friend Wes who mentioned that he had just got the directions to this year’s Rainbow Gathering from his friend Nathan and was wondering if I wanted to go and check it out. We started going over all of the crazy stories that we have heard in the past: mushroom tea, acid by the sheet, mounds of kind bud, and beautiful naked woman dancing in drum circles. "I'd be fuckin crazy to pass it up" I said. The next day we packed up his car and drove to the Wyoming-Utah border. We got a little lost on the way, slept on the side of the road the night before, and arrived at a dusty parking lot at 7:00 in the morning. We got out of the car and didn't see any of the craziness we heard about. "What the fuck are we suppose to do now?" I said, "where are all of the naked chicks in the drum circles" I asked. Just then a girl in the car next to us woke up and asked "Hey brother, do you know where the shuttle is to Welcome Home?" "No sorry" Wes told her and then said "OK, I guess the first step is to find some kind of shuttle to this place Welcome Home." We started walking and asking around for a shuttle and finally someone pointed to a pickup truck that a few guys were climbing in the back of. "Is this the shuttle to Welcome Home?" I said, trying to sound like I knew what the fuck Welcome Home was. "Absolutely, climb in brothers" said this hippy who looked like he had spent the last ten years in a cave and bathing in mud. We climbed in the back and I started trying to imagine what on earth was waiting for us.

"Rainbow Bear is my name brothers, what do you call yourselves?" "Steve and Wes" we said. Rainbow Bear smelled God awful, beautiful person, but smelled like a dead animal that had been eaten by a homeless guy and shit out a week later. Rainbow Bear told us that he was a seasoned veteran to the Gathering. He explained that it has been taking place every year for about 35-40 years. He told us how money was not allowed and how the food was free as long as we brought some to share with the kitchens in the campsites. Wes and I were aware that we had to contribute, so we brought some potatoes, flour and rice. We finally arrived at Welcome Home. There was a banner welcoming us home and a blockade built out of soda cans and little rocks, so that the shuttle wouldn’t drive past. When we climbed out of the shuttle we were greeted by about 2 dozen hippies who immediately started hugging us and welcoming us home. It was very nice of them to treat us so kind; I was starting to get in the spirit of this thing. The "vibe" was amazing and I wanted to experience everything the Rainbow Gathering had to offer. As we started to walk into the woods, we asked our new friend Rainbow Bear where we were suppose to go from here. He looked at us and said "this is where the adventure starts brothers, you'll find your way" and walked off into the forest. "Thanks a lot you fuckin dirty piece of shit" I said under my breath.

Wes and I saw more and more people as we walked up the road. We wondered if this was the main part of the Rainbow Gathering. There were people here drinking and smoking weed in a forest. This had to be it. We kept asking these hippies if this was what we had come here for and most people wouldn't say a word to us, and when they did, they would ask if it was our first time and tell us that the adventure of the Gathering, was finding the Gathering. "No one is talking, this is weird" Wes said. "I know what the fuck, the hippies back there were way nicer" I said. We finally found a completely dusted out old hippy just laughing away at himself. "Excuse me um brother, but do you know where we go from here, I mean is this like the main part of the Rainbow Gathering" we asked. He tried not to give us too much information, but we managed to get some from him. We heard him mention a place called Bus Station. "OK" I thought, "find this Bus Station place next." We asked around about Bus Station, but no one would really talk to us, but the forest was getting much thicker, so we knew that we were probably heading in the right direction. We kept trying to talk to people; we figured that at least a few of these hippies would talk back to us. Finally one hippy and his girlfriend whispered to us that everyone was supposed to pray in silence until 12 noon. He even pointed the way to Bus Station. We thought that the hippies were treating us like assholes because we didn't look hippy enough, but they were actually staying quiet because of some Rainbow Gathering ritual.

I can only imagine what this place smells like?

We were walking through the forest and I noticed that different themed camps were set up everywhere, each with its own kitchen. There was Celtic camp and Israeli camp and plenty of others. When we inspected some of the kitchens we were completely blown away. They were built by hand and could handle just about any meal. They even had ovens made of clay, so that they could bake cakes and cookies. Hippies love cakes and cookies. We finally made it out of the forest and walked into Bus Station. This was definitely it. It was the most beautiful meadow I have ever seen. It was the size of a city. There were little brooks running through the middle with manmade bridges going over them. In the middle of the meadow was a giant prayer pole with many people, religious and otherwise, sitting around the pole praying. We saw Native American's in war paint tripping peyote by their wigwams. People were tripping balls and painted in assortments of colors. We saw people dressed in black robes performing weird ancient pagan ceremonies, and finally the naked hippy women that we heard so much about, but actually, I wish about 90 percent had put their clothes back on. Still, they were naked and we were happy to have found the secret Bus Station after hours of searching. It was an adventure to get here and it was clear what the object was when we finally arrived: smoke shit loads of weed and find the mushrooms, pronto. It was about eleven thirty am and we started seeing people migrating to the edge of the meadow. We whispered to a few people to ask what was going on and were told that at twelve noon all 25,000 of these hippies would circle around the outside holding hands. "What, really" I said to one of the hippies. "Yeah" he said, "it’s so beautiful brother, come and see." Wes and I figured "fuck it, when in Rome."

We went and joined this giant circle comprised of 25,000 hippies holding hands and I must say it was one of the most beautiful feelings that I have experienced in a while. I could actually feel the energy of everyone in the circle; it was pretty insane, but great. While we were holding hands with these 25 thousand hippies an older man of about 65 years old, was walking around the peaceful, still quiet, edge of the circle, banging a drum. It seemed as if he was a local from the town who hated the Rainbow Gathering and wanted to disrupt this peaceful circle. One of the hippies standing next us acted quickly and reached out and gave this conservative looking man a big hug. The man with the drum retaliated by slamming the drum stick off of the hippies head. All of a sudden about 10 other hippies joined in on the hug trying to turn this man to their side with the power of hippy love. I thought it was fucking hilarious. The local from the town was squirming and screaming "get the fuck off of me you god damn hippies" but they acted as if they knew that their hugs would turn him and just hugged harder. Finally the man broke free and continued his disruption of the peaceful circle. We continued to hold hands and in the distance I heard a faded out song. I couldn't tell what it was. I looked over to the left and saw about 800 children all in a parade singing "All we are saying, is give peace a chance." They were all in the cutest costumes I have ever seen. They had come down from Kiddy land, a place where parents could drop their kids off in the care of volunteers who helped watch the kids as they went and tripped like maniacs and danced to drum beats. As the kids got to the prayer pole, the circle broke. We all came walking to the middle and had a party that lasted for a few days. There were drum circles with hundreds banging away and the most naked of people dancing to the rhythm.

That night we stopped by one of the kitchens to watch a few guitarists playing some beautiful freestyle and we noticed a giant witch’s caldron with liquid in it. “Finally” I thought, “We found the mother lode of mushroom tea.” We walked over and dipped our cups in and started to trip into another world, it was beautiful. We were relaxing by a fire, the music was great and people were just loading hash into our pipes. Everyone was so friendly. By this time I had completely immersed myself into this thing. I was in the hippy spirit and loving it.

the myth of the cracker jack pirate

Granville Lennox harbor in the Dominican Republic circa 1820's.

A recent excavation in the Dominican Republic uncovered a story that the world has been awaiting over a century and a half. Journals and diaries from the Catholic priests that inhabited the island in the early 1800’s reveal the actual story of the smiling Sailor Jack and his happy go lucky dog, Bingo from the front of the box of the beloved caramel corn snack Cracker Jacks.  The priests of the island were considered local historians and kept records of the events that took place.  Below is one such account.

From the journal of brother Bartholomew of Madrid translated to English

I am a Catholic priest sent from Spain to the island of Hispaniola as a missionary.  There has been an overthrow of the order of things and I have recorded what I have seen in case I am never to make it back to my home land of Madrid.  The troubles all stemmed from a cabin boy named Milosh who was trained as a sailor to guide the ships of the wealthy British aristocrat; Jack Blanchard Granville Lennox.  Lennox owned and operated all the goods on the island.  His plantation was operated by slave labor; there were thousands of them.  He traded slaves, cash crops, and manufactured goods along the triangular trade route.  Jack had a partner named Charles Auxley. A brilliant man, some would say the brains of the whole operation. Rumor has it that Auxley approached Jack with an idea that would change the future of snacking.  He proposed to mix caramel with popped corn from the cob, he wanted to combine the 2 to make a magic snack that no one ever seen or tasted.  It was going to change the trade of goods and snacks forever.  Jack loved the idea and wanted that magic snack for himself.  The story goes that the sinister Jack snuck into Auxley's room and cut his throat before seeing his idea come to fruition.  Jack then claimed the idea as his own.

Cracker Jack's boiling room where molasses was processed by slaves.

Jack was known for his iron hand.  The slaves and the white indentured servants hated him with an unyielding passion. The slaves nicknamed him Cracker Jack, for they said he was the most evil Cracker this side of the Atlantic.  The cabin boy Milosh accompanied most of the big parcel sailing trips.  When Milosh was 10 years old he was kidnapped from his native Slovak village by a group of marauders.  He was rounded up as a slave and was eventually sold to Cracker Jack, to be used as a cabin boy on his slave ships.  He was trained by the other crew members to steer the ships and keep the cargo (slaves) in line. He worked on those ships for years and hated every minute of it.  He was never seen without his trusty dog Bingo.  On one of the trips to the Caribbean the ship hit a rough patch of water and Milosh went overboard.  Bingo immediately jumped over the side and dragged Milosh to safety.  The boy loved the dog from that day forward.  

Being sold into slavery himself, Milosh felt an affinity with the other slaves being bought and sold by Cracker Jack .  He heard rumors of slave codes used by slaves to send messages without saying a word.  These codes involved tying knots on the boats in a certain direction, or setting out different images on the clothesline, or the hammering of blacksmiths to different patterns to send messages to the others on the island.  Milosh became very close with the slaves of the island and soon learned all of the secret codes.  Whenever the crew was asleep, Milosh would go down into the slave quarters and train each and every slave to make sure that they all knew the codes, so that if an insurrection was near they would be ready to act.  Then in 1831 word spread of a powerful slave name Nat Turner in America that gathered his fellow slaves, went plantation to plantation, murdered the owners, and took his freedom by force.  By the time the story got to Hispaniola it was as romantic as can be: a slave with such passion and courage that he was willing to take on slave owners.  When the slaves heard about this mythical Nat Turner it gave them a new brand of courage.  

It was 1832; the slaves and servants wanted freedom and Milosh was waiting for the perfect time to start the revolt.  They planned for about a year to take over Cracker Jack’s plantation.  Finally the time came and it happened faster than anyone could have expected.  Milosh made a plan to tie all of the knots on all of the ships to the right for the whole week, so that everyone knew that a revolt was on the way.  When they saw Milosh’s boat with all knots tied to the left they would know that revolution was coming.  

Milosh’s boat was the last to come into the island from a new pick up of slaves and molasses that was traded for the caramel popped corn.  When the first black smith saw that the knots were to the left, he hit his hammer in a pattern that sent a message of war to all who knew the code.  The sound of the hammer of the black smith carried to the ears of the other black smiths who joined in on the chorus.  Soon enough every slave in the island knew that the revolt was about to take place.  It worked without a hitch.  Everything on the island was set ablaze except for the caramel popped corn plant, and every one of Cracker Jacks men were either dead or captured.  The priests were made to live in the church where we were not to leave, for fear of one of us escaping and spreading the word about the insurrection.  When they finally found Cracker Jack hiding under his bed they decided to publicly execute him for all of the inhabitants of the island to see.  He was crucified upside-down.  

The reign of Cracker Jack was over and the slaves were now free citizens.  They were to start a new society on the island.  Everything in the plantation was destroyed except for the caramel popped corn factory.  Milosh came up with an idea that would keep the citizens of the island prosperous for years to come.  He was going to pose as Jack’s son; Cracker Jack Junior, and continue the trade of the beloved snacks for other goods.  As far as any of his future trade partners were concerned, Jack Blanchard Granville Lennox had peacefully passed away in his sleep and was missed by family and friends alike.  Milosh would take on the name of Jack and would work with the citizens of the island to sell and trade the valuable caramel popped corn for goods and services that would benefit the entirety of inhabitants on the island.  All profit from the caramel corn plant was split evenly among the citizens.  They decided to name the caramel popped corn after the original owner, Cracker Jack. The recipe remained virtually unchanged, with one notable exception: the addition of peanuts. These local treasures grew abundantly on the island and served as a staple in the cuisine of the native inhabitants for decades when little else was available. This would serve as a constant reminder of the glorious rebellion that freed the citizens of Hispaniola.

Milosh’s future would take a turn for the worst.  On a trading trip to New York, Milosh met a local Scandinavian woman in a Brooklyn watering hole.  He engaged in sexual perversions with this harlot and contracted a strong case of syphilis.  He would eventually die an awful death, but not before losing his sight and going completely insane.  He spent his last remaining years with his dog Bingo, howling at the moon like a crazed animal.

the myth of childbirth

These people are doctors. That's science they're doing.

Well it's quite simple really... Look here. First, the man takes out his thingy. And then, he goes pee-pee in the lady's butt.

the myth of gargamel

Undoubtedly we are all familiar with the fictional group of small blue creatures known as the Smurfs. These docile, apparently asexual woodland dwellers (although I believe Vanity Smurf was pretty gay) lived in cozy mushrooms dwellings and were one of a virtual cornicopeia of items that graced U.S. toy store shelves in the early 1980's. But what is most bizarre is that our childhood intrigue might be rooted in a series of ancient myths surrounding this Hanna-Barbera classic; a monstrous French epic first arising in 1532. The first discovery that follows is about a man named “Gargamel.”

Throughout Europe in the 16th century boys and girls were likely assigned to governesses, full time nannies, which were responsible for the youths’ care and entertainment. Many wore full length black gowns. Intending Children to mature quickly, the French Renaissance was abloom with tales aimed to scare youth towards adulthood. It was here in the grotesque and dirty mind of François Rabelais that La vie de Gargantua et de Pantagruel first gave rise to notion of Gargamel.

The very horrific life of the great Gargantua is a series of tales about a giant (Gargantua) and his son (Pantagruel). Crude and sadistically willed governesses often found humor in retelling the violent tales of Giants out to devour innocent children as they slept. Odd was the fact that Gargamel was often left in search of an oracle of the divine, an answer to an impossible question. Thus the conflict.

The most surreal aspect of the Gargamel legend has to be François Rabelais’ moral disrobement sometime shortly after the 1532 publication of the Gargantua tales. By the 16th Century, the alchemists in Europe had separated into two groups. The first group focused on finding new compounds and their reactions - leading to what is now the science of chemistry. The second group continued to look at the more spiritual, metaphysical side of alchemy, continuing the search for immortality and the transmutation of base metals into gold.

It was within the metaphysical world that amateur alchemist François dabbled. The facts are dark but it appears that Reformation leadership charged François with moral indecencies for what a appears to be a series of ‘experiments’ aimed at extracting gold from the energies of unsuspecting youths throughout the French countryside. He even dressed the part!

The character Gargamel first appeared in Le Voleur de Schtroumpf (“The Smurfnapper”), published by a Belgium comic strip in 1959. He had captured a Smurf which he needed as the special ingredient for a potion to make gold in accordance with an old magic spell. Here however the vitality and youthful vigor of the childish Smurfs prevailed, the kidnapped Smurf was freed and Gargamel was defeated and humiliated. Similar to the Gargantua tales, no matter how elaborate Gargamel’s plans became it was destined to end in an unending search for gold.

Gargamel’s tale is evidence that with The Smurfs (Les Schtroumpfs) we are witness to a mystical, interconnected parody that spawns several centuries and thus needs to be professed once and for all.

the myth of tigerman

As an Irish American its always been a dream of mine to see the country of my ancient ancestors.  I grew up in a very Irish family and the myths and legends that I was told over the years made Ireland seem magical.  When I was 14 years old my mother applied for my Irish citizenship and it came through with ease.  I never really gave much care to being an Irish citizen until my early 20’s.  I mostly used it as a pick-up line when I was living in Colorado.  The Midwestern girls aren’t used to meeting guys with any exotic traits, and usually the mention of a dual citizenship made me sound like some cultured man of the world.  Around the age of 23, I finally made my first trip to Ireland and it surpassed all of my expectations.  Drinking beer in Ireland was a religious experience, the scenery was unmatched by anything I have ever seen, and the accents were hilarious.  After my first trip I knew that someday I had to move back.  I started planning ways to ditch my regular existence and radically drop everything I have ever known, in order to make it back to this heavenly land where the Guinness tasted like the sweet, sweet blood of the ancient Pagan Gods.

 

In 2004 I made my declaration; I was going to save everything and just go to Ireland forever.  I had no idea what part, but I was going.  I made a deadline of February 15^th 2006.  No matter how much money I had saved, I was just hopping on a plane and going.  As time went on, I had to figure out what part of Ireland I wanted to move to.  I read everything about every county.  I finally decided on Galway, it had the reputation as the bohemian and traditional capital of Ireland.  February came faster than I could imagine.  All of a sudden I had to start making plans for my living arrangements.  I had no idea about how I was suppose to find a room, or apartment from New York, so I decided to say fuck it and get a bed and breakfast for a few nights in Galway. This was my destiny and fate would lead the way. After a legendary going away party thrown by my main man Brian (the myth of the going away party coming soon) I was off.

A Chance Encounter   

I arrived in Galway City in Ireland on February 15, 2006.  It was my first visit to the magic city, but I was planning on spending the next few years of my life sampling the finest pints of Guinness from these ancient Irish pubs.  I packed my only real possessions, 2 bags of clothes and a guitar; I was ready to start from scratch with a new life in a new country.  Anyone who’s been to Ireland knows that most flights to the country from America are usually overnight.  When I arrived I checked into my bed and breakfast, took a quick nap, and woke up in a fog of grogginess ready to explore my new home.  The owner of the B&B, like most Irish people, was completely accommodating.  She gave me directions to the City Center and told me that when I got off the bus I would have no problem wandering around and finding whatever I needed in the city.  I stepped off of the bus and took a right on a very skinny side street.  It looked like every great post card you see from the Emerald Isles.  As I was appreciating the ancient architecture I hear “Will ya pull me pants up lad, come on lad, pull me pants up, will ya.”  I turned around and the first thing that came out of my mouth was WHAT THE FUUCK??  The man, begging me to pull up his pants, had no arms and seemed completely plastered.  I first thought that I was in a crazy dream and was hoping that at any moment this no- armed man might be turning into Elle Macpherson, but he didn’t.  I didn’t really know what to do at first.  I have never really pulled up a pair of pants for a no-armed man in my life; I certainly didn’t want my hands to go where they weren’t suppose to.  I proceeded to grab the side of the man’s pants with outstretched arms when he further pleaded “and the back lad, pull up the back.”  Having no arms, the man needed me to pull up his elastic waist pants from all four sides.  When I finished he said “T(h)anks a million, lad” and with surprising quickness drunkily ran off: gone as quick as he came.  I looked around to check the reactions of the others on the street and the expressions on their face made it seem like this was an everyday occurrence, but I was stuck thinking “What in lords fucking name was that?”  I thought that I must have been on some crazy “Fuck with the Yank” Irish hidden-camera show.  I then decided that a few drinks were definitely in order, so I made my way to the Quays (unbelievable pubs) to get my first experience of tasting the liquid of the Gods.  Eventually I forgot about the no-armed man and went about my life in Galway. 

Months later I was sitting in a pub with some newly made friends drinking the most honest-to-God beautiful Guinness, when I saw a man with one arm walk into the pub.  My first thought was “poor guy, must have wrecked his motorcycle” but then the memory of the no-armed man from a few months ago hit me like a bolt of lightning.  I had to fill my friends in on my experience with the no-armed drunk man my first night in town, so out of nowhere I yelled “Oh, hey, guess what I fuckin' saw my first night here?  Some no-armed shit-faced old man made me pull his pants up for him, it was so fuckin' weird.”  Everyone at the table had expressions of recognition and knew exactly who I was talking about.  “Oh, so you had a run in with Tigerman, did ya?” Daragh said.  I was ecstatic that I could get some kind of back story about this magical character that so emphatically made me pull up his pants.  I absolutely needed to learn more.   “Tigerman, why the fuck do you call him the Tigerman?”  All the lads at the table eagerly leaned in wanting to contribute to the story of Tigerman to the new Yank who had no idea about this Galway legend.

Curiosity Doesn't Kill Shit!!

If anyone can make a story into an event it is the Irish, God bless them.  Daragh proceeds to tell me “Years ago the circus was in town.  Your man is walking by late at night pissed as a tinker, and decides to climb the gate and take a closer look at the animals.  He walked straight up to the fucking tigers' cage and tried to pet the fuckin' thing, as if it were a house cat.  The tiger grabbed your mans arm and tore it clean off.  Ripped it right the hell off !! Tigerman, completely helpless,  saw his arm laying there and tried to save it. So with his other arm, he reaches into the cage, and the tiger grabs your man's other fuckin' arm and rips it clean from the joint.”  My mouth was wide open, I had been dying to get the no-armed man's story since my initial run- in with him, and now I am getting the full-on Irish oral treatment.  It sounded too crazy to believe!  “Are you fuckin' serious? A tiger ripped the guys arms off... that sounds like something out of a Tarantino movie?  You Irish guys bullshit more than anyone.”  Everyone at the table confirmed that YES, a tiger had in fact, ripped off the shit-faced man's arms when he tried to pet it as if it were a house cat.  The first question that popped into my head was “How does that guy get so shit-faced with no arms?  I can’t get shit-faced without my arms, does he drink with his feet?”  Daragh then told me that he use to bartend at a pub up the street and when the Tigerman came in, the bartenders would know to get a pint of Guinness ready and have a straw in it for the good ole Tigerman so he could get a taste of the heavenly drink that no man should be kept from, arms or no arms.  They would go around the bar and take the correct amount of money from his pockets.

Dennis then warned with a very serious expression “But when you see that little no-armed bastard go into the jacks (bathroom) for a piss, make sure that you stay the hell out of there!”  “Why?” I said.  “Because he can wiggle his pants down to his knees on his own, but he’ll be needing some help getting them back up.”  I asked Dennis if he had ever been in such a position where he had to pull up the pants of the Tigerman, and he told me about one night down at Morgans.   He was out with the boys pulling back some pints and strolled on into the jacks for a piss.  When he opens the door he sees good old Tigerman, pants down to his knees, everything exposed.  He covered his eyes and yelled “What the fuck are ya doin', mate?”  The Tigerman in a feable voice begs “Can ya pull up me pants lad, please lad I can’t do it meself.  Can ya pull up me pants lad?”  Of course, like any decent human, Dennis with arms outstretched, trying not to get another look, helped him as best he could.  And when the pants were up Tigerman was back to his pint like a Jack rabbit, he was known for his unexpected speed.  “From that day on, when I see the fuckin' Tigerman havin' a pint, I monitor his bathroom visits and make sure that the next cunt going into the jacks is someone other than me” Dennis explained.

Just A Little Tinkering Around...

I started to become obsessed with the Tigerman.  I started to look all over town for him.  I just wanted to sit down and buy him a pint, so that I could get his back story.  “Why in the fuck would you try and pet a fuckin' tiger?”, I would ask him.  “Where are you from where you think you could get away with something like that?”  I wanted to know how the gears in Tigerman’s head moved.  I started asking around town to see if anyone knew of his past, but basically everyone knew the highlights: Tigerman was pissed and foolishly tried to pet the tigers when the circus was in town, which resulted in the fucking fool losing his 2 arms to the 800 pound beast.  I kept coming up empty.  I had one last idea, I was going to brave it and go down to the travelers, or tinkers as some would call them, and ask if they had any information about the past of the Tigerman.  Now, the tinkers can be very very dangerous.  They are known for stealing, fighting, and basically destroying things, but they had mysticism to them that regular Irish did not have.  If anyone knew the past of the Galway Tigerman, I thought, it had to be a tinker.  They travel around the country in caravans living as nomads.  They are not allowed in pubs, or anywhere civilized for that matter.  They look Irish, but their accent gives them away every time.  They sound like a mix of gibberish Moroccan and ancient Irish.  My grandfather use to say “those fuckin' tinkers will steal the eyes from your head.”  I knew the stakes of going into the travelers grounds.  The stories my friends told me were frightening.   I would probably end up beaten severely, robbed, killed and put into a stew that was being prepared for the 2 first cousins that were preparing to be married on Friday.  I prayed to God that I would not end up in a stew.

I brought my rosary beads with me for comfort.  If the tinkers decided to put me in the stew the rosary beads (made of rose wood) would probably just make for a great garnish, but they brought me calm none the less.  After entering the traveler’s grounds I was approached by a pair of traveler children.  They looked so cute, I remember my Irish friends mentioning that traveler children are like baby rattlesnakes; when they bite they give you the full effects of the venom.  Before I could say anything they demanded a few shillings from me.  I gave them some coins in my pocket and asked them if there was anyone on the grounds I could talk to that could give me some information about Galway.  The 2 kids just pointed over to the trailer to the right and ran off admiring the Euro coins I had given them.  I went over to the trailer and knocked on the wooden door that looked as if it was going to fall off from a second round of knocking.

Now you can say that again! (No REALLY! What in God's name?)

An old woman came to the door and said “asdhlasogphasfhosfp” (I don’t know what the hell she said).  It was probably a mix of old Gaelic mixed in with some tinker slang, it was completely impossible to understand.  Luckily there was a young boy, not older than 14 years old, sitting on the couch, which was made of pillows, potato sacks, and knit blankets.  I looked over and asked him if he spoke English.  He nodded that he did.  I then asked him if he could ask the old woman if she knew anything about the Tigerman.  The boy looked over and said “asldfhpas asldfh dsfgjl $#@+.”  She then replied to him “fgdboshf dfsljgh sdgojgh sdugh.”  She then immediately looked at me and held out her hand.  I gave her twenty Euro hoping that was enough to buy information from an old tinker woman.  She acknowledged with a grunt that it was enough.  Through the boy, she said that she had known the Tigerman for years, and had shared many bottles of poteen (Irish moonshine) with her old friend.  I asked if she could tell me about the Tigerman’s back ground; his name, former occupation, last known relatives, anything to give me an idea of who he was.  She told the boy, who then told me, that he had lived a long life of sobriety as an animal trainer in Budapest for many years.  He was known to be very skilled with the big cats, a gift, people would say.  She said he could go up to them and actually pet them. I then asked “Like a housecat?”  She nodded yes.  Now I started to get an idea of what was going through his head when he approached the man eater that fatal night.  I asked her why then did the tiger take his arms from him if he had such a close relationship with the animals.  She said that the Tigerman was on tour with his traveling Hungarian circus in the country of Mali.  He entertained a crowd at the Festival au Desert in Timbuktu when he encountered a great shaman from a tribe south of Mali.  The Tigerman had his share of woman admirers, as every lion and tiger tamer does.  After he finished performing one night he met the daughter of the shaman, her name was Kiela.  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.  The Tigerman was warned by his guide that Kiela’s father was a great and powerful shaman, who would not allow her to become involved with someone who was not a member of their tribe.  The Tigerman was undeterred, and proceeded to woo the young girl back into his tent.  When the shaman came looking for his daughter he found her with the Tigerman.  He then started chanting a powerful curse and told the Tigerman that his gift of handling lions and tigers was now gone.  The Tigerman laughed at the old shaman.  The next night he attempted to perform in front of the awaiting audience, but the usually subdued animals were worked up to a wild frenzy at his presents.  He could not enter the cage; he knew he would be ripped to shreds.  Over the next few weeks he continued to try and use his past gift with the animals, but to no avail.  Every animal now treated him as an enemy.  The poor Tigerman returned to his native Ireland and started hitting the drink hard.  He was depressed, his sky had caved in and his calling was gone.  A few months after returning to Ireland the Tigerman was out at Tig Coili (incredible pub) having too many pints as usual when he remembered that the circus was in town that week.  He decided to go and have a look for himself and when he got close he saw the beloved tiger; the animal that he use to know so well.  He decided to give just one last try to see if he could bring the animal to love him as he once could, and that’s when it happened, WHAM; no more arms.  When I asked if she knew his name she told the boy that they called him the Tigerman as well.  I thought, “that’s strange that she drinks with the guy, but never got his name.”  Then I heard her say to the boy “gfshgfgu;dgh” and I thought “well actually, it kind of makes sense since he probably didn’t understand a fuckin' word out of her mouth."

As the tinker woman finished her tail I told the boy to thank her for me and that I had to be on my way.  Remembering the story about the stew and the first cousins, I wanted to leave the tinkers grounds as soon as possible.  I got what I came for and was satisfied.  I couldn’t wait to tell my Irish friends about the information I had obtained.  When I got into town I was walking to the Skeff (amazing pub), and all of a sudden I heard from behind me “can ya pull up me pants lad?”

Editor's Note: If it all seems to good to be true.. .(Well, not if you're Tigerman, I guess?) don't take our stinkin' word for it. Check out more Tigerman stuff  right here

the myth of the astonishing (paperback) book of myths

"Enlightenment is soooo overrated! Transcendence of worldly temptation... what-ever dude. Finding your inner child? Yeah right... I already know where my inner child is. He's in a urine-soaked ball bath at a Chuck E. Cheese in Salt Lake City. Karma and harnessing chi? Why don't you harness THESE N___S Dr. Who, and pass me the remote!"

Yeah. That was me. (Although I actually have never uttered any of those things. I mean really... who says stuff like that?) Ye of little faith. Wayward. Unbridled. Skeptical. I can't say that I have ever put much thought into the concept of the afterlife. There are so many crazy things that rattle around in my peanut jar of a brain on a daily basis, that I don't need another potential albatross screwing up my day-to-day. I'm good just the way I am. And then WHAM!!, just when you least expect it... salvation kicks you in the shins and calls out your mama! 

Saturday afternoon may well have been one the most beautiful days in remembrance. Mid 80's and sunny. Absolutely gorgeous. And after the sleepy malaise that this winter kind of draped over The Rotten Apple, nice weather couldn't come any sooner. So what better way to spend the first really awesome day of Spring then to go to a Midtown Hilton and sit in on Moneyfest, a big Learning Annex sponsored tradeshow offering sure fire ways to make you the next Tom Vu! Right? Right? (Long story... but it actually was helpful.)

Why does everyone have a crazy accent in this thing?

So I had a few errands to run first in the neighborhood before the seminar at 4:00PM. And I'm walking down 5th Ave. in BK minding my own business, listening to J. Dilla's Donuts album on the iPod. So I hit 14th street and something catches my eye. It's a tattered, weather-worn book. Kind of thick and no cover attached. Nothing particularly interesting about it? Honestly, I don't even know what possessed me to pick it up? I mean, it's not like I pick up every filthy old paperback I come across laying in the street. (Isn't that how you get pink eye... or shingles?) So what was it about this one that literally stopped me in my tracks? My guess... Destiny! So for whatever reason, I decide to read the first sentence on the page... 

"So I left to go to India, and I took a bottle of LSD with me, with the idea that I'd meet holy men along the way, and I'd give them LSD and they'd tell me what LSD is. Maybe I'd learn the missing clue?"

OK... that's pretty nutty. What the fuck is this book all about? I checked the spine which was pretty banged up and read it... Be Here Now. That's it. No author listed. No nothing. So I start flipping the pages, and about 30 pages or so into it, the orientation of the text changes from horizontal to vertical and its completely FILLED (like 200-300 pages) with these absolutely insane illustrations and various ramblings of text. Now I'll admit, I am as curious as anyone when it comes to random stuff. I get no greater pleasure then finding someone else's discarded crap and making use of it. Not like I buy pre-used tighty whiteys off a hanger at a thrift store or anything, but I do love finding that lost needle in the haystack. You'd be surprised how many of these peculiar things I find make their way into some "project". So I gotta say this was the score of scores!

These are pretty intense for a leisurely stroll down the street, huh?

 

Beautifully-illustrated naked ladies... OK I see a theme shaping up.

Is that Freedom Rock? Well turn it up man!

Well it seems that Be Here Now was a pretty popular book... being that it has sold over 1 million copies since its first publishing in 1971. See here

So I suppose my Saturday afternoon needle in the haystack was not nearly as shiny as I had originally wished it was. And it is here where I must interject and say as amazingly powerful as the internet is, it is also a real turd in the soup bowl of one's consciousness sometimes. I mean how much cooler would this tattered old book be if I didn't have the ability to immediately find out ever minute detail about it and its origins. I'm acting like I found the the Declaration of Independence in a box of Cap'n Crunch or something, and less then 48 hours later, my personal triumph is relegated to essentially some wheat germ-loving kook's toliet reading. Curiosity it seems has once again killed the cat. What a pussy!

So needless to say, it was a pretty banner train ride to the Learning Annex spiel into the City. I tried to read a number of these pages and what did I assess from the incredible tome? Not too much really, other than it's super, super funky and without question a phenomenal undertaking. Transcendental meditation might not be my thing per se, but I do appreciate insane rantings and a good naked lady drawing as much as the next guy who puts his white draw string pants on one leg at a time. Namaste.