This week my beloved city by the sea is infested with all manner of bad creepiness and ugliness from the 4 festering corners of hell. Carnaval, a demented specticle of mass debauchery to make the likes of Joe Coleman and Heronymous Bosh cringe in revulsion together. Me, I’m planning to hole up at home and bury meself in me work for the duration of this foul interlude — which is pretty much all I do anyway. And so life goes on here in Rio de Janeiro.

Meanwhile, the new book I’m working on, Scabvendor — Confessions of a Tattoo Artist –is coming along and getting easier for me to write, a day at a time. The process is bringing me all sorts of new revelations as I go along, and with them a much-needed sense of ease to the whole cathartic process of writing about my life and my past — Everything from my nightmarish non-childhood, my insane alcoholic family, the musty dungeons of drug-addiction, to the art and travels which ultimately lead me in search of redemption. All I can do is continually give thanks to whatever powers of light and darkness seem to be guiding my hand as I go.

Actually, these last few months have been the best period of time for me, hanging by the sea and working on this book at home here in Rio. And the further I go, the more the syncronicity seems to happen around all the stuff I’m writing about — as if the universe is sending me the help and support I need, just when I need it from all over the place; strange, long-estranged friends and random unexpected people coming out of the woodwork lately and writing to me out of the blue from all over the world — and each time  just as I’m completing another new section of material that would be of special interest to each of them, amazingly enough!!

Meanwhile, all sorts of obscure long-blocked people, places, things and family memories keep creeping into the book as it seems to slowly write itself with me being there simply as its servant, showing up to work a day at a time. More will be revealed, surely, and when it rains, brothers and sisters, it fuckin really pours!!

Dunno how its all gonna play out with whatever family members are still living, people who are mentioned in the book – mostly cousins on my mother’s side who I haven’t seen or heard of in decades. Sometimes I wonder about stuff like that, since, surreal as it may seem, this book is officially a factual Memoir. I seriously doubt, however, that most of em are even still above ground at this point — not the way alcoholism was taking em out when I split from my family of origin over 40 years ago, running for my life. But it will be interesting to see what some will have to say about certain memories I’ve put to paper, if and when I ever find em. Who knows? Maybe they’ll find me. Considering the mystical way these things seem to be going and developing lately along this quest, nothing would fucking surprise me now!!

The fact that I’m battling with is that The American Dream itself has to take on face and character somewhere in this story, since it is the real villan — and what better living incarnation for all its bitter dissappointment and disillusionment than real-life characters like my insane stepfather, who enabled– even encouraged– my mother’s alcoholism until the day she died of it. With a cast of characters like that, it often seems more like a horror story than a memoir. But those fuckers are an intergral part of the palate I’ve been given to paint this picture with — and I only pray to be able to use their sorry asses to good and effective purpose without my own spite and resentment creeping into the narrative to pollute or cloud artistic judgement. Especially since, deep in my heart, I truly believe that in real life, as in art, there are no heros or villans. Only people, some more fucked up than others, but people nonetheless, all doing the best they can in their fumbling, bumbling, often tragically pathetic way… The only real villans are our own mistakes, and the fears which cause em. At least that’s how I’ve come to see things over the years since I’ve begun to wake up.

All in all, this is a time of heavy inspiration and creative energy for me, and I’m glad to be here in Rio, making the most of it. I can really feel the presence of many invisible and human hands helping me to write this and dig deeper and deeper into the essence of my task. More and more with every day I go along. And for that I am infinitely grateful.

Another long hard summer rain is fixin to fall here at my open-air office by the sea now. I can see the lightning flashes on the trembling horizon. Soon I’ll get on the bike and brave my way thru the storm to home with a quick stop for dinner. There I can get back to the laptop and sauna and whatever else there’s to do there on another wonderful day’s work, praying all the while for guidance.

After the beach, Eugene and some of his band members went back to their beach-front hotel for a shower and a nap. We made plans to meet up after dinner at Mio’s house in Copacabana for a dinner and informal rehearsal for their upcoming show together at the Fundação Progresso in Lapa.

The show would be Gogol’s first public appearence with a band of local Brazilian Gypsy musicians, and we were all looking forward to the happy occasion.

After my friends left, I stayed on the beach and waded out into the sparkling waves under a hot and cloudy sky, thanking God for another day clean and sober in my beloved city of dreams — Rio de Janeiro. Bendito Rio, city of Orfeu Negro, city of clouds and music and barefooted dreamers, city of Gypsies and landlocked pirates and wailing bohemian poets, city of Cigano and Narcisa, city of love and terror, city of God.

Copacabana at Night

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Finally got a full night’s sleep in my own bed. That was good for a change. Just as I was finally getting unpacked and distributing presents to my girl, the phone rang.

“Hey, bartalo, Cigano! Mixto!” The familiar voice croaked.

“Sar san, prala!” I said to Eugene the Gypsy in my own broken Romani.

“Back in Rio, brother. Chillin’ at the beach in Ipenema with my band today. You coming down?”

“See ya in twenty minutes, bro!”

“Party!” Eugene said. Then; “Hey, man. Call Mio too!”

I hung up and dialed the familiar number. Mio, the respected Gypsy leader of Brazilian Roma answered on the third ring. I told him Eugene was in town and we made plans to all meet up at his place later that night for one of our wild all night Gypsy jam-sessions in his kitchen. Yeh, it was all starting up again. Gogol Bordello style. Party!

Back in Rio, I barely had time to get reaquainted with my home, much less even begin to recover from the long whirlwind of people, places, travel and events before it would all start right up again.

Finally got a few hours sleep in my own bed while a pair of my  pet vultures flapped their massive black wings out on the sunny balcony overlooking the bay. Seeing them sitting out there as I fell asleep reminded me of that song “Death is Certain” that Iggy wrote after spending an afternoon on my balcony in Rio. After just a few hours, we woke up in the afternoon and went to the Paderia for fresh bread, eggs, coffee and fresh orange juice. Then we got back on the bike and rode over to my regular spot by the beach.

I pulled the motorcycle up onto the big rock at the end of Copacabana — just in time to meet my dear friend Sebastian Elsaesser there. Sebastian had just arrived from Germany, via the Amazon jungle city of Porto Velho, where he had been conducting one of his intensive self-realization workshops in a prison for habitual murderers.

Sebastian is a paranormal phenenomenalogical psychologist; a powerful witch doctor with a PHD. He used to be the Director of one of the largest mental hospitals in Europe. Sebastian revolutionized treatment programs there by nearly totally eradicating the use of harmful psych medications on patients and initiating a highly effective regime of holistic therapy and “alternative” treatments for those under his care. A shamanic spirit-worker by vocation, Sebastian has been teaching, working and studying in Brazil for decades now with the likes of Chico Xavier, the famous Brazilian medium and psychic healer.

Sebastian had just finished conducting a week-long workshop in my neighborhood in the hills above Rio and was now enjoying his first and last day off before heading north to Bahia for his next adventure — after which he would head back to Germany. For now he was just chilling, sitting at my open-air office by the waves.

As Tali and I rode up onto the rock, I could see Sebastian was already hanging at the table with our dear friends, filmmaker Romulo Fritscher and his wife, the great Brazilian songstress, Paloma Lins Costa. We sat down and ordered some fresh coconuts all around, then caught up with our friends there, sitting by the waves sipping cool coconut water and swapping news.

After awhile Sebastian and I took our leave from the others and walked down the stone stairway to the sand. It was time to greet my Mother, Iemanja, Princess of the Sea. Sebastian dove right in the water and swam out quickly beyond the breakers, while I stayed closer to shore, body-surfing wave after crashing wave, smiling as I bonded again with my sparkling happy home. And once again I was reminded why I love living in Rio above all other cities. Where else can a grumpy, cyinical anti-social writer have such an “office” to do his solitary work from?

Finally, after months on the road all over the world, constantly surrounded with all sorts of people and social happenings I was really longing for some peace and solitude. And this is where I go to get it. But I’d still have to wait for any kind of real break. The next day Eugene and Gogol Bordelo would be arriving in Rio with all their raging demons of wine and song…

Chico Xavier

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About halfway back to Rio on the bus in the middle of the night, my girl suddenly shot out of her seat like she’d sat on a scorpion.

“E’sheet! I forgetted my laptop in the Acid-Lady house!” She howled.

Shit, of course! At one point at the party, in a fit of pathological anti-social shyness, and feeling overwhelmed by all the fancy people there, she’d simply retreated into Fantasy Land and gone off by herself to play some computer game.

“Aiii!! My laptop!” She wailed loudly again, waking up the sleeping bus passengers to a volley of hissing and ssshhh-ing worthy of a rolling snake pit.

“Should I tell the driver to stop and turn the fucking bus around, baby?” I laughed.

Before she could go into full meltdown mode, I calmly assured her that I would call our host the minute we got back to Rio and just ask him to send it to us with my pal Eugene, whose band, Gogol Bordello, would be coming up to play in Rio in a couple of days, right after their upcoming São Paulo gig. That promise, combined with the prompt rockstar hand delivery of her beloved laptop seemed to satisfy her, momentarily quelling her urges to kill everybody on the sleeping bus, myself included. I went back to sleep and when I woke up, we were in Rio.

As we got off the bus it was raining softly in the murky light of dawn. The familiar smell of raw sewage and mold invaded my nostrils. The smell of a thousand dead man’s farts. Welcome home. Ahh, home! Home Sweet Home.

Pics not working today! Sorry guys!

The next day we were invited to a strange and lovely garden party at a sprawling idyllic rural compound located right in the middle of the world’s largest and most populated metropolis.

The beautiful home belonged to Timothy Leary’s widow, Barbara and her new husband, the cool and hospitable Brazilianarre art collector, Kim Esteve — another friend of Cousin Theo’s. Who the fuck doesn’t Theo know in São Paulo?

The house itself was like a live-in museum with framed Kerouac poems, historical photographs and post-modernist art dotting the walls as far as the eye could see. Strange, eccentric high-society types wandered about like Free-Range Aristocrats. There were also some younger and hip-looking rock n roll types lurking around the grounds – including Derrick from Sepultura, Marky Ramone and a Caviar-toting ex Miss Russia, who gave my girl piano lessons. Miss Russia cringed visibly when I showed her a small section of the new Russian translation of Narcisa — before assuring me that the language was ”rich and beautiful” in Russian — albiet “very disturbing.” Mission accomplished again! Next stop, Russia.

After a delicious lunch prepared and served by the gracious and elegant Barbera Leary, her husband Kim gave my girl and I a VIP tour of his stately mansion and art collection.

“I hope these woman don’ put too much LSD in the food!” My girl whispered as we followed our host across the sprawling lawn to check out another wing of his home museum, housing one of the world’s most extensive private collections of Fine Art.

I assured her it was probably cool. Emboldened perhaps at the idea of actually being able to maintain her hard-earned soberiety, even in the company of the late Acid Guru’s woman, she unceremoniously walked over to the also-sober Marky Ramone and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey you!” She growled. “Is true you the guy who make that music, Psycho-therapy!?”

Marky nodded graciously.

“Fock, man, that’s a great song! Hey Joni, take my picture with the Psycho-therapy guy, go go!”

Finally, the party began to wind down. The Psycho-Therapy Guy left, along with a bunch of other people. Most of the remaining guests had been driniking heavily since early afternoon. It was well after dark now, and many of them were beginning to babble incoherantly. Barbara Leary had disappeared and Cousin Theo was nowhere to be found. It was time to take our leave of Sao Paulo and catch a flight home to Rio at last.

We were kindly offered a ride to the airport by one of the visiting hallucinating dignitaries – who promptly sideswiped a pine tree with his BMW on the way out of the compound. When I suggested he let me drive his car, he laughed and said he loved to drive his shiny new Beemer. After bouncing off a couple more trees like an acid-addled pinball, he finally got us out onto the highway.

“I wish you could see what I’m seeing now.” He said to nobody in particular as my girl assumed a duck-and-cover position in the back seat. Miraculously we made it to the airport in one piece, and our new friend continued his magical mystery tour solo. Hope he made it home alive. The most important thing, though, is that we did!

At the ticket counter we were informed there were no more flights to Rio till morning so we caught a taxt to the bus station. The cab driver, luckily, was sober and entertained us with stories about his own narrow escape from the ravages of crack addiction. Adeus, São Paulo. Hello, Rio.

JS and Barbara Leary

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The next day, my ever-industrious Paulista cousin, Theo Castilho showed up again at the Lizard Lodge Hotel where we were holed up. This time he came bearing a rare invitation to me and the now calm and collected love of my life. Cousin Theo asked us to join him as his Guests of Honor that evening (being engaged has its perks – even to the devil!) at a fancy dinner party at one of his many fancy friends’ new expensive resteraunts in the chic São Paulo Jardins district.

Spike Jonez, another friend of Cousin Theo’s, was there with some other friends from America. There were a bunch of other pals of Theo’s there too. A very lively and friendly crowd.  Thank God too, since the tempermental Miss Terror was on the rag again by the time we arrived the posh eatery. This time the big crisis was that she felt overwhelmed and out of place in such an upscale, trendy setting. My girl, like myself is a bit of a caveman when it comes to social scenes niceties.

Thankfully her little social-leper spell didn’t last very long this time. At Cousin Theo’s and my urging, some of the other girls at the party graciously stepped in and took her under their wings, putting her more at ease. Soon enough they were all bosom buddies. Finally Theo introduced me and Spike and we hit it off too. We spoke for a long time about the creative process of writing and so on and I signed a copy of Narcisa and my other new book and gave them to him. It was a good meeting and a great night. I’m glad we went. Valeu, Theo!

Spike seemed like a really nice cat. An artist. Soft spoken and intelligent. God knows the world needs more of that. We waited in front of the restaurant for a table, smoking and talking outside the luxurious watering-hole with Lambriginnis and Fagarottis or whatever lined up outside. Johnny Depp’s new orange monster car woulda felt right at home! Finally we were called to our table. As dinner and drinks were served, a wonderful time was had by all. Thanks for the great meal, Cousin Theo, and thanks, Spike Jonez for the pleasant company and talk!

The next day, my good-natured friend, Tonico Monteiro de Carvalho flew down from Rio to join us for the show — the same Tonico who’s responsible for my write up on page 70 of the new Brazilian emagazine, denguemag.com.

Tonico and my girl and I rode on several hair-raising, gut-wrenching rides at the rusty third-world amusement park where the  show was being held. Finally, dizzy and sea-sick, we wobbled over to the backstage area. We found our way up to the side of the big festival stage just in time to catch Sonic Youth, who were opening up for Iggy.

Sonic Youth seem to be opening for Iggy every time and everywhere I see him lately, usually in South America. Last time was Buenos Aires, I think. And it’s always a pleasure, especially seeing Kim Gordon — who I actually went to the same high school with (before I dropped out in the first year). Its quite strange and just a wee bit un-rock n roll to know someone like that for 40 fucking years. But there it is. Rock on, Kim!

We were still hanging out in Sonic Youth’s dressing room after their set, talking of this and that, when we heard a soul-shivering roar go up from the crowd to the familiar sound of the first few bars of LUST FOR LIFE. Iggy was raping the stage! We ran out of the dressing room and got up to the side of the stage and watched the first few songs from there. Iggy was in full comand, as usual, and the large, unruly audience was going totally ape-shit.

Just as I was thanking my lucky stars for not being down there in the middle of that slobbering, drooling rabid monkey pit, Tonico and my girl decided that’s exactally where they were gonna go to have a better view. I wished them well and said a prayer as they wandered off to join the ranks of the Great Unwashed. And that’s just where they stayed to enjoy the rest of the show. Everything went fine for them there — at least for the next fifteen minutes, until Iggy decided to start a full scale riot by inviting the huge manic crowd of savage adolescent reprobates and mother-killers to come up and invade the stage. Mayhem. Violence. Fun. Flying bodies rained back down from the stage, where an acid-tripping Cousin Theo and I had our hands full helping Iggy’s roadies punch and strangle his over-entheusiastic fans. As steel-toed boots kicked in peoples heads down below, Tonico grabbed my girl by the arm and got her out of the life-threatening melee all in one piece. Thanks, Tony the Tiger. You’re Grrrr-eeaat!

After the show we hung out with Iggy’s beautiful and simpatica wife, Nina for a long time while Iggy battled it out with his band in a top-secret backstage band meeting. From the more-stressed-out-than-usual look on his manager Henry’s face, bullets were flying behind closed doors there. The overall vibe was so tense, in fact, that I didn’t even get to give a quick hug to his Iggy’s bass player, Mike Watt who’s a really nice guy, besides being an overall amazing player. Since so many of Iggy’s bass players have died untimely deaths over the years, I said a said prayer to Pai Ogum to protect the good Mike Watt.

Finally Henry called us back to the dressing room where Iggy and I caught up after much too long, chatting away like a pair of dying children in a refugee camp for a half-hour. Then his manager looked into the dressing room and gave him the nod. After a last hug and a quick Photo Op with Tonico and my girl, Iggy jumped into his bullet-proof limo and we jumped into Tonico’s bullet-proof Town Car. We all rode off our seperate ways into the endless night of that screaming megalopolis where drab, faceless white sky-scrapers dot the horizon like the rotting teeth of all the sharks of Hunger. God help us all.

Backstage

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