COSMIC TRAVELERS

COSMIC TRAVELERS
The Adventures of:

Johnny Opium
Kool Run-Ins
The Big VossMan
Pablo Francisco
dsoul
Canadian Red


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tijr. says:

a work in progress is never completed. life is a work in progress. it all depends on how it is expressed.
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The First Cosmic Chapters
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JOHNNY OPIUM

"You just don't know where you are," Susan aches a small cry as she turns around swiftly, with her kimono twirling in followance. "I can't have you here when you so much should be out there," she says to herself, barely audible, as she drifts slowly into the dark art studio.
She has left me ghostly alone at the front door, trying to observe the ominousness of the place; an empty birdcage hanging from the ceiling just inside the door, where a velvet green chair is dark next to a turned-off lamp. The side walls are fattened with stacks of past and neglected paintings, and fabric, held up horizontal by rope, fails to add privacy to the studio's overbearing vastness.
I slip behind one of these fabric walls, into a false room made for me after I was unable to earn enough money to rent the loft.
Packing the rucksack was quick; only a few shirts, a pant, underwear and socks, are all of my possessions. Clothes were the items two months ago I felt were necessary for hitchhiking from Denver to Los Angeles.
My growing library of secondhand books had to be abandoned (except for a Steinbeck and a few others) but I wouldn't leave the loose-leaf papers that held the beginnings of my next novel. I gathered them all into a big catering box and brought it outside into the ocean night air.
I return inside for the rucksack and again for my beach-cruiser bicycle, all the while ranting about American literature and the Beat generation.
"You see," Susan wines a laugh while remaining hidden in the darkness, "you live in a world of not your time."
I too giggle a hysterical laugh and ask what time other than the present would I be living? I’m out the front door without waiting for a reply.
Dropping the bike so I can pull up my baggy pant, I try to think my situation. The cool spring air of this Santa Monica night is calm, but it can be heard rustling the distant palm trees. And the salty air is seasoned with the rotting smell of the pier.
Without coming to a conclusion but only observing the moment, I gather my things and begin to walk to the sand. Pushing the bike with one hand and holding up my pants with the other, I cross the vacant parking lot mumbling to myself. A young female voice rises above the silent wind, but it isn't until she shouts again, this time dragging the sound of the word, do I understand what is said.
"Buuuuuummmmmmmmm."
I grunt a barking, "what!?" but get no reply; just again the silent wind.
Only steps onto the beach do I make camp. Dropping everything, and then myself, the fine grain of the sand cushions and muffles the impact. Using the rucksack as back support, I get an opportunity to relax. The twinkling vision in my eyes from the earlier magic mushrooms keeps me entertained, until I remember the half flask of whiskey I was drinking at the rock concert.
I finish the hard liquor in large gulps and throw the empty glass far onto the sandy beach without getting up. Lying back on the rucksack, I begin to wonder if I, somehow along the way, made a big mistake.

The cool sand adjusted to my body dimensions as I comfortably curl into a ball. I find myself relaxed enough to close my eyes and fall asleep. This doesn't last long; a spinning sensation forces me to sit up and hold my head. It is the beginnings of dawn, but the morning overcast is preventing the rising sun to break through.
I lie against my bag for an amount of time I don't document. The sky remains cloudy, time seems not to move. I am scheduled to open for work at the Indigenous Music, Arts and Crafts store, but not until 9:30. Beach workers and sand tractors break the silence of the crashing waves. When a tractor comes onto the sand and begins down the beach, I decide to gather my things and follow the ocean bike path to wait for my boss to show up for work. I become annoyed when I remember they have owed me a paycheck for over a week. Today was the day they promised it to me.
My phone has died and I have to return to the art studio to retrieve the forgotten phone charger. Knocking on the door for minutes eventually draws Susan. I ask her again if she would reconsider kicking me out.
"You stink of dirt and booze," she steps back into the studio's darkness. "This is the exact reason why you are no longer welcome." I slip into the fake room not listening, grab my charger, and am out the front door without a word.
I quickly get on my bike with all my things. Unbalanced, I drop the catering box from off the handlebars. Gathering the scattered papers, I try again with the bike. Skipping onto the pedal, a quick correct with the front tire and am slowly on my way.
The 15 minute ride took me half an hour. Coming up to Venice Beach, the beach bums, with their morning cigarettes and coffees, give me dirty waves and smiles as I ride by. I get to the store and lock my bike in the back parking lot. The red dodge that belongs to the tattoo owner has yet to arrive. Two homeless men are sleeping on the cement. I pull out my Canadian army blanket and lie down, wrap up, using the rucksack as a pillow. Falling asleep, but only briefly, my back is stiff from the hard surface.
There are still no cars in the lot when I wake, but one of the homeless men is gone. I fold my blanket and throw on my rucksack before I walk around the corner to get some cigarettes and coffee. Taking my time with both, although the clock in the coffee shop reads quarter after 9, I keep a blank stare out toward the beach and ocean.
Getting back to the back parking lot, some cars have arrived, but not yet my boss' truck. The other homeless man is gone and I sit on the ground to have another cigarette. Before I finish it, the silver truck comes up. My boss rolls down his window with a, "good morning, Johnny."
I don't return the salutation, but tell him we have to talk. Startled, he remains in his car and looks over my shoulder to inspect my gear.
"But you can still work today?" he asks assuredly.
"Dude, I'm skipping town. There’s no time to fold t-shirts," I laugh.
My boss parks his truck and invites me in through the back of the store. Inside, he gives me a heavy sigh and I reply with a shrug of shoulders. He convinces me to agree in setting up the store, only after I demand my paycheck. While I set up the store, my boss tries to remind me to "fulfill my job duties," and work for the rest of the summer.
"It seems it's not suppose to be like that," I shrug. With another heavy sigh and a long stare in my eyes, he finally goes to the back room to retrieve my paycheck. He returns and asks me, "it's not drugs, is it?"
This time I sigh. Folding the check into my pocket without looking at it, I gather my things and head to the back door. As I step outside, my boss stops me and slips a piece of paper into my hand.
"Read it later," he smiles, "and best of luck to you."
I thank him and unlock my bike. This time I hop on it with better balance and peddle to the front walk. There's a grassy patch next to the sand, by the police station, where I decide to re-pack my bag. I drop everything and sit down cross-legged to roll a joint.
I spark it and lie back on the rucksack. Remembering the note, I pull the piece of paper out of my pocket and read, "the Great Spirit is always watching us, just acknowledge him."
Finishing the joint, I dump everything out of the rucksack and re-pack it by folding the clothes. Putting the bag on my back, I adjust the straps for it to ride lower on my back.
The bank is a short ride down the street. I walk in with all my things and join the line after a confused greeting from one of the bankers. The teller waves me over and patiently waits for me to put down my things and to find my ID.
I put some of the cash in my pocket, but a majority of it goes in my rucksack. Happy to now have spending money instead of rent money, my anxiety again returns. An old high school friend is in living in Santa Barbara and I have yet had time to see her due to work. I decide to ride my beach-cruiser from Santa Monica to Santa Barbara.
I stop at a market next door for water and peanuts. Prepared, I get on my bike, this time finding balance quickly, and slowly start peddling.
The bag is heavy and rubbing awkwardly against my back. I take the ocean front walk, but the bike path ends a couple miles down. This, being the farthest north I have been, I stop to rest and have a cigarette. The Santa Monica pier is hazy in the distance. I grow nervous and anxious about moving into unfamiliar territory.
I walk my bike up to the guardrail while another man on a bicycle comes up after me.
"What do you think?" I smile.
"Just gotta get out there," he laughs and carries his bike over the railing and peddles away. I follow and find myself starring down oncoming traffic. Some cars honk at me, others move over to the next lane, and most speed up to pass. Going around parked cars forces me onto the street for a bit and I'm trying to time it to not only avoid cars but also on-coming street bicyclist.
The strain on my back makes me always think of resting. My legs, too, become tired from the all day travel. Yet the view between beach and mountain is vitalizing. But with one gear, climbing the hills are too straining to peddle up and I am forced to get off the bike a walk to the top.
"Just get around the next bend," I say to myself all day. It's late in the day and I find myself in the shadows of the mountains. "To see the sunset," I encourage as I roll down a hill.
Turning the bend as the sun is disappearing behind the wetland horizon, the coming darkness behooves me to find a place to sleep. A dry grass spot surrounded by bushes and the cliffs of the mountain is inviting enough. I bring my things off the road one item at a time. After I lie down my blanket, I smoke a cigarette and play the harmonica.
A hawk circles above, while crickets chirp nearby. For the second night in a row I find myself sleeping outside, but I fall asleep smiling.
I wake up before the sun and take the opportunity to start riding early. Gathering my things, I thank the hawk, and have a cigarette while stretching my legs and back.
A couple peddles after starting, a slow ride gets me rolling down the hill, and my legs begin to throb. I come out of the mountains and the freeway becomes divided. Fields of crops line the road. Workers are starting to move along the rows of the small plants while bosses stand to the side.
Small neighborhoods eventually separate the fields. School children are waiting on the side of the road for the bus. Two street dogs, upon seeing me slowly roll by, begin to bark and one runs along with me until the fence stops his progress.
I continue on into the industrial town of Oxnard and lose track of the ocean highway bike route. The only way I know is the 1 turns into the 101, which would eventually take me to Santa Barbara. I come up to the freeway and a cigarette is smoked while I contemplate the rush-hour traffic slowly rolling under the overpass.
Tossing the smoke to get back on the bicycle, the traffic is backed up and the speed gathered from coming down the on-ramp has me going faster than the cars. My progress is quickly slowed once I get on a level surface and the cars take me over. My legs are tired, but keep peddling.
A couple miles down the road and I come up to a police escort for an oversized semi-truck. One of the police cars cuts me off and I hear a loudspeaker behind me say, "stop riding the bike, now!"
Just looking over my shoulder throws me slightly off balance. I stop where I am and take off the rucksack. The caravan and escorts patiently wait.
A tall and wide police officer comes up close and looks down at me over his fat mustache. I arch my head up and look him in the eyes.
"What are you doing on my highway?" the officer asks with irritation.
I tell him but he doesn't listen. He tells me to get off at the next off-ramp I see down the road. The police officer follows me and I stop at the top to have a cigarette. Watching as the caravan begins again, a police car comes up to tell me to get off the off-ramp. I flick my cigarette on the ground and get back on my bike. There are signs leading me back to the pacific coast bike trail. The road is more visually appealing and the loud noise of passing cars and trucks is gone; only the sound of the waves.
I find I am resting more frequently and for longer amounts of time. I am tired and hoping to get to sleep indoors this night. Stopping at a pay phone, I call my friend in Santa Barbara for the first time. She answers the phone and is happy to hear from me. We make plans to meet later in the evening at the pier.
I ride for not much longer when I come upon a richly green park with a couple lakes. Resting on some lush grass under a tree, I ask a passing couple how much farther Santa Barbara is. They look at each other and laugh, saying I've already arrived.
Making my way to the beach, I read books until the sun nears the horizon. At the pier, a girl's voice calls out my name. A short dark haired girl jumps out the car and gives me a hug. Stopping at her place for me to shower, she makes me hurry for us to meet up with some of her friends at a sports bar.
We get drunk off of expensive drinks her friends buy me in celebration of my arrival.
The next day, she has to work and I spend my day sleeping and reading on the beach. Once I get hungry, I ride my bike into town. In front of the burrito restaurant, I hear a busker with long blond hair playing the song, Wagon Wheel. This song was introduced to me from a friend who busks in Toronto.
I talk with the guy over a cigarette about how plain Santa Barbara seems. When I ask him if he would like to come to the club where I'm to meet my friend, he laughs and tells me how a club like Tonic wouldn't let him in with his guitar. I understand and wish him luck.

KOOL RUN-INS

After having a gun put to the side of my head I knew it was time to stop my involvement in the business aspect of the ganja culture. Not to mention the cops. It was time for a change. The only possessions I owned were a Shwinn Varsity bicycle and a backpack of clothes. Thanks to the kindness of a few local and college kids I wasn’t exactly sleeping on the streets. However, between the drug dealing and the girls who love to love, I wasn’t exactly free. So my mind was made up. Goodbye Santa Cruz.
A good hitchhike down through Big Sur is always a great way to clear your head. But here I was about to make the journey with a perfectly good road bike. The cosmic cruiser. It was a stop to the bike church to acquire myself a salvaged rack to strap a sleeping bag to. This trip was going to take a few days and the weather was ripe for camping. No need to say my goodbyes just ride.
I felt free again as soon as I began to get the hell out of that town. It’s easy to get caught up and forget that we all have the choice to be free. Thinking to pace myself and enjoy the coast, I decide on Monterey for the first night. No more than fifteen minutes after arriving into downtown and I was smoking a joint on the beach with a dreadlock guitar man. His song of encouragement to let your soul shine let me know that I was in the right place. With a small amount of ganja left I peddled it around town. Literally. That night led to several bars and beach parties where I encountered numerous characters and a lizard named Clyde. Feeling tired I retreated to a spot I had scoped out earlier on the cliffs to lay my head down for the night. Waking up and heading straight for a cup of coffee, I gulped it down fast and hit the road once more.
The day did not cease to remain interesting. Seventeen-mile drive it was called. Flat yes, but the wind was not on my side. Thank god for the Mexican gardeners cruising the scene in their golf truck. The let me hold on to the vehicle in tow, pulling me and my bike truly effortlessly for roughly five miles into the refuge from the wind away from the coast. We chatted. We shared a feeling.
Might as well have a beer in Carmel, I decided. Quick stop and back on the road.
The uphills coming into Big Sur began as intimidating but after experiencing the rush of the downhills I was pumped. I’d set course for the Maiden Pub. Always a good place and good time. Not to mention the close proximity to mystical magical camping. The expenses for beer, smokes, and food that night left me broke. Thank god I still had a nugget of weed left. How will I eat? Oh well, I hoped it would figure itself out. It did.
The cosmic cruiser (Shwinn Varsity) was in tiptop shape except for today the cable to the de-railer breaks and I lose the use of my gears. Impossible to climb these hills. I made it to store hungry, exhausted, and knowing I couldn’t carry on with the bike. I sat there thinking to abandon it and thumb a ride to San Luis Obispo. Just as these thoughts run through my head a longhaired local type compliments my cosmic cruiser.
“You want to trade it for a sandwich in this deli?” I threw out there.
Sealed deal. Delicious pastrami and a jug of orange juice, thumb in the air.
Now this guy had been squatting as esslin resort for a few days. A yoga teacher and involved in the organic culture, the conversations was easy as we smoked from the bong he had in his car. I held the wheel when it was his turn to hit the bong; glad to help. After all he took the time to stop and pick me up on the side of the road. What do you know? Just so happens he’s going to San Luis.
As soon as stepping foot onto the main avenue of down town SLO in search of a meal, I run into a good old buddy. Joe. I’d known him from my previous passing through. Quite the character if I do say so myself. He was equipped with a mandolin and asked where my guitar was (I’ve always had a guitar in my travels). I explained to him how the drunken extravaganza on St. Patrick’s Day was the last day for my trusty old guitar. Joe lived in a trailer on the outskirts of town at which he said he had a guitar that he would “bro me out on”. I was “stoked dude”.
It was a quick hitch down a dusty farm road to the trailer, followed by an even quicker trip back. Now we were playing music and getting drunk. What else is one to do when reunited with old friends? At a point we had apparently overstayed our welcome in the alley behind the restaurant with our tall cans in paper bags. That point was when the cops showed up. Fortunate for us, just as they pulled out their ticket books, a call came over the radio.
“We gotta go. You guys got lucky, no time for tickets. Don’t let us catch you again.”
Should have listened. Or we shouldn’t have gotten caught by the same two cops later that night. What can you do?
It happened when Joe decided to steal a handle bottle of Jim Beam whiskey. As he comes around the corner with liquor in hand, intent on meeting me in the back parking lot, up swoops the fuzz. Joe immediately runs and the first officer takes off after him with tazer in hand. Up rolls another black and white faster than I could think and before I know it I am in cuffs. My crime: Drunk in Public. Off to the drunk tank with me. I went to the jail but was informed that I would have to pick up my guitar and backpack at the police station when I was released in the morning. After a good six hours sleep in the cell I am kicked to the curb and off to the Police Station to get my belongings and get the hell out of this town. I had a guitar now. Might as well go visit my gypsy musician friends in Santa Barbara.
I arrive to the Police Station to find that the lady who handles property release is on vacation for four more days. Perfect. With the clothes on my back, the kindness of eight-teen Christian girls with guitars, and resourceful local bums, I survive the four days. As soon as I had my gear back it was to the highway 101 South for a ride down south.
Yet another hitchhike mission and I’m in Santa Barbara. That last ride, the one that took me right where I needed to be, left me with a joint and a lucky fifty cent piece. Shortly after arriving I was at the Java Station catching up on times with my gypsy friends. My buddy Greg offers me a place to stay. I accept and we head out after catching up on old times.
The next few days prove to be boring. That’s Santa Barbara for you. I’m constantly running into old friends and the array of local street characters. Overall my days are uneventful and I realize I must get somewhere and back to adventure. Perhaps Hawaii, New York, Austin, or maybe even good ol’ New Orleans.
One afternoon I am playing my guitar downtown for change and dollars. While singing “Wagon Wheel” a young bearded gentlemen stops and stands next to me, listening. After I finish he tells me his connection with that song and how it means a lot to him. Who doesn’t know Wagon Wheel? I don’t catch his name as he rides away on his bicycle.
My days remain uneventful and in my party state I am failing to leave. After busking one day I head to the beer store. I see the bearded man again and strike up a conversation with him. Turns out he’s a travel writer from Denver, Colorado. I invite him to have a beer with me and off we go. First to the liquor store and then to a parking garage rooftop to drink and look over the city. As the conversation develops I find out that he has just arrived here by bicycle as well after quitting his job in Santa Monica. Unfortunately someone steals his back tire while the bike is locked up overnight and he sells the remains for fifteen dollars. A little more drinking and talking leads us to San Francisco. He’s never been! I explain how I have nothing to do here and I was planning on leaving myself. If he wanted to come with me he was more than welcome. I take down his cell phone number and promise to call on Monday. That’s our departure date.
A few more boring days in SB and I give the gentlemen a ring. “You ready to roll?” I ask. We meet up downtown and catch the first bus to Winchester Canyon. The old hitchhike spot on the 101.

COSMIC TRAVELING

The sun beat down hot upon the 101 that day. Monday, Memorial Day, lots of travelers returning from their weekend getaways. As good a time as any to hitch a ride to San Francisco. There they stood thumbs up at the end of a mile long stretch. Can’t miss the two vagabonds perched on the side of the highway looking for a ride. Their bags rested atop shrubs and weeds beyond the curb next to them. The guitar case was in plain view. People are more likely to pick up a musician than a bum.
Time began to pass. First in increments of five, then ten, then thirty. It’s a lot harder to hold a thumb up in the air than one might think and they begin to exchange shifts. After roughly forty-five minutes they broke into the flask of whiskey, smoking Pall Mall cigarettes frequently.

Johnny is holding his thumb up with his other arm. It’s sunny out but the dry air is breezy from the passing cars and trucks. He sits down on the side of the road and looks up at Kool Run-Ins.
“How long does this spot normally take before someone picks us up?” he smiles.
Kool Run-Ins shifts his weight from one leg to the other and sticks out his other thumb. He takes a drag from his cigarette and casually lets the smoke billow out while he smiles. “That’s the thing about hitchhiking,” he blows out the rest of the smoke,” it could take minutes or it could take days. You just have to be patient with it.”
Johnny inhales from his smoke and stands up. “And you normally get a ride?” he asks.
“You always get a ride,” Kool smiles.
Johnny goes over to his bag and finds the flask of whiskey. He crouches for a pull and offers one to Kool. Kool bends over and takes one of his own. Johnny is in the process of putting the flask back and tightening the straps when Kool jumps at him, grabbing his gear.
“This is our ride,” he says.
Johnny looks up. An old VW van has stopped.

Carrying their gear loosely, they hobble to the van. Kool opens the passenger side door. It’s a young girl.
“How far are you going?” Kool inquires.
“I’m going to Santa Cruz,” she replies.
“Perfect,” the two hitchhikers chime in unison. Quickly they open the sliding rear door and jump in the back, eager to get a move on.
“Where are you guys going?” she asks.
“We’re trying to get to San Francisco,” Kool states.
“I can take you as far as Salinas and then I have to cut over.”
“Perfect,” they chime once more.
That’s a good 200 plus miles, leaving them with roughly 100 to go. With both of them in the back seat, and not wanting her to feel like a chauffeur, the two decide on Johnny taking the front seat while Kool naps in the back.

The vine fields boarding the freeway are lush with green, and in the distance, dirt brown hills roll to life with the movement of the car. The girl is playing with the tape deck and Johnny asks what she is listening to.
“Books on tape,” she smiles. “Invisible Man.”
He gives her a nod of the head and grin. Conversation about literature drowns out the tape and the talking is giving him dry mouth. Johnny is always excited to describe his life as a travel writer, who is promoting his first book, TRAVELING BEARD “Where My Mustache Took Me”. He shows the girl a copy of the book and describes the possibilities of anyone getting published, all is needed is the true effort put into it.
The car’s heater does not turn off completely and the sun coming through the window is making Johnny too hot; lightheaded. His skin is crawling and he asks if it would be alright to crack the window. The girl agrees but also mentions how she’s a little sick and the wind could get her sicker.
Johnny keeps the window closed but opens the side vent to smoke a cigarette. Now too lightheaded, he stares out the window and imagines himself on the beach, with his feet in the water.
The van jumps and he ask what that was. They have to stop at the next exit to put in fresh oil. Johnny is happy to stop and get out of the front seat, and the sun.

“How long have I been asleep for?” Kool spouts out in a confused state. It’s strange to wake up in the back of a van realizing that one's hitchhiking to San Francisco.
“About an hour and a half,” Johnny responds.
They’re pulling off the highway to a service station so the girl can put some motor oil in the vehicle. Kool decides pop tarts and an Arizona iced tea aren’t a bad idea.
“I’ll take the front seat for the rest of the way,” he tells Johnny.
As the antique VW lurches back onto the highway, Kool lights up a smoke. Looking over at the girl, he observes her down to earthiness. Their conversation leads him to finding she lives in a co-op in Santa Cruz. She is on her way back from visiting her parent’s house for the holiday weekend. Tomorrow is a very important house meeting at the co-op; they will determine whether or not to acquire some chickens. Kool never did find refuge in the co-op scene but he has a respect for their lifestyle. With only a short distance to go, Kool realizes the comfort of the van will soon be gone and back to the full exposure of the next on-ramp.
Who knows where, but they are there. Some dusty ho-dunk stops off in Salinas, the on-ramp bordering an In-And-Out burger joint. Atop an electrical box next to them lays a left-over to-go box with a tuna melt, still fresh. Just what they needed. Thank you Great Spirit. A highway patrol officer flips a bitch and pulls up.
“You guys can’t be hanging out here,” he grunts.
“OK,” the two smile.
He drives away probably knowing as well as them they weren’t going anywhere until they got a ride. Formalities.

They move our bags from off the dirty roadside and lay them only feet away on the grass next to a sidewalk. They smile at the drivers who stop at the intersection before the freeway. The silent shrug of shoulders or a honk of the horn seems to be the only thing offered by the dark faces.
The two give each other a “What the fuck!?” smirk and turn North, glaring in their desired direction. A red truck stops without their hitchhiking thumb signals. Johnny runs up to the car and the man rolls down the window.
“I’m only going about 30 miles down,” the man says. “Maybe you’d like to wait for something better.”
“We’ll take whatever we can get,” Johnny smiles and waves Kool over. He picks up their gear and Johnny helps him throw it into the bed of the truck. They hop in the cab and the driver hands them two oranges before asking them to buckle up.
“Yep,” the man says with an accent, “You’ll be fine. I don’t pick up people but I saw you two and I slowed down.”
Johnny, sitting in the middle seat, smiles over at the man and nods his head.
“It’s much appreciated,” Johnny says. “Any kindness helps when traveling.”
The driver tells them his story of growing up in Portugal and joining the army. He moved to the States, “America is the best pace in the world,” he laughs, and continues saying how grateful he is to be living here.
His story is divided between his life and “Yeps.” He gives advice on how approaching people at the gas station would be better, “and safer,” than thumbing on the side of the road. Johnny smiles at him and thanks for the advice as the man responds with a, “Yep, you’ll be fine.”
There are many intersections on the side of the road, ones similar to their spot in Santa Barbara, the two eye as they drive by. These places, they feel, would be better for them to pick up a quick ride, but the man’s encouragement and excitement for a place with shops and gas stations overrides them. They let him help the best he feels possible.
The man passes his own exit and drops the two off at the next because he feels it’ll be better. At the gas station, he lets them off and they shake his hand. The two pull their gear out of the bed and give the man a wave. He rolls down his window and, with a smile, says, “Yep, you’ll be fine.”

Kool has been to places like this before. Never proved a good spot, but here they were. Surrounded by Best Buys, Chili’s, Wal-Mart, and several chain gas stations. These people have televisions and Myspace to return to. No time to pick up hitchhikers. After about an hour of attempted hitching the two decide to camp for the night. They’ll need some whiskey for that and fortunate for them there was a BevMo located within this maze of corporate center. $7.99 and worth every penny this strange awful blend of whiskey was. Not nearly decent enough to remember the name. Posted up with their homelessness in front of the Wal-Mart filling up a flask that Johnny had in his pack they watch the good ol’ Americans scuffle in and out. Just like the greeter that Wal-Mart has hired for the door, we go unnoticed.
“Enough time here, lets find somewhere to camp,” Kool decided.
Lurking around the now closed or closing businesses they stumble upon an enclosed dumpster area. Originally in search of cardboard to make their beds, it’s concluded that this might not be too shabby a resting place for the evening. Only seventy miles to go at this point.
“Should be there by noon at least if we set out bright and early,” Kool speculates.
Drinking whiskey and staring through the open top of their one night dumpster condo getaway, they fall asleep. No way to know what it was, for neither of them moved in the middle of the night, but something sounded like half dragon, half garbage truck as they lay there waiting to be rousted. They wait to, "see what happens," Kool whispers. Eventually the raucous subsides. Nothing happens and they slip back to dream land.
The morning came and gas station coffee would do them just fine. A banana nut muffin and an apple strudel. Johnny took the strudel and Kool the muffin. Back to the on-ramp of unsuccess from the night before. Another hour there and no luck. They choose to walk to the next on-ramp a mile and half down; through a field, across a dry creek, past a medical center where a girl lay crying on the sidewalk, and into the next shopping center. A brief moment of rest and its thumbs up again. At this place they have a good stretch where cars can pull over and shade from the hot Gilroy sun. No more than fifteen minutes and a new model Mercedes Benz pulls over. Same old shuffle. Grab the gear and up to the window
“How far are you going,” the two ask.
“San Jose,” comes the reply.
“Perfect.”

The two try and be talkative but their tiredness is beginning to show. Simply reiterating words the man says keeps him excited about his own story; a computer programmer who make half a million last year. But right now, he has no work.
“That’s the best part of working for myself,” the man says, “if I want to work today, I work.”
They smile and nod their heads.
“Best part,” Johnny says and the man continues to give an example of how each problem he is hired to correct furthers his own personal knowledge.
When they arrive in San Jose, the man asks if they’d be alright with stopping so he an introduce them to someone, “who also enjoys music.”
The man pulls into a McDonald’s parking lot and a young bearded man with dreadlocks talks with Kool about the struggles in the music scene. Johnny smiles on and when asked if he plays an instrument, he says, “pen and paper.”
Kool trades e-mails with the man and once done with a cigarette, they all get back in the car. The man takes them the couple blocks to the Cal-Train. They thank him again and he appreciates their genuine spirits.
The two get tickets, get on the train, and sit down to nap. Johnny reads for a short while and stares down at the swiftly passing gravel bellow. San Francisco is the final stop after an hour’s ride. They gather their things, step off the train, and stand in front of the station to light a pair of cigarettes.
With Kool leading, because he know where to go, the two walk down Fourth Street, busy with cars and old brick buildings, while Kool tells a story about a night spent at a nearby bar; he was playing at an open mic night and, from above, a microphone falls on his head, giving him a concussion.
Catching the 71 bus off of Market Street, Johnny laughs at the steep streets they travel up; with the diagonal way the front doors rest along the street. Kool is excitedly taking with some tourists, telling them stories of Haight and Ashbury. He comes to realize where they are, gathers his things with a nod and a smile, and jumps off the bus at a stop. Johnny falls out the door, tripping over his rucksack. He looks up at Kool, who has a content smile on his face, a man who has just arrived home.

Haight Street. Disneyland for cool. A psychedelic, funkadelic, yuppified collaboration. People come from all over the world to buy t-shirts and souvenirs while kids stagger around on the dopest mushrooms, acid, pot, etc… that money can’t buy. Kool and Johnny unload their gear on the wall in front of the music store. Busking is the name of the game. Dollars and change for songs. Not quite a fair game. Not long after they opened up shop a good ol’ pal of Kool’s, Tony, cruises by.
“You motherfucker,” he laughs.
“Son of a bitch,” Kool replies.
Tony takes a seat and Kool immediately hands him the guitar and braces himself for his ultimate serenade. Once again, more than money can buy. Tony’s raw, uncut, full volume talent is attracting too many people. The gang comments how it would be nice to have a joint. Right at that thought takes place, they look on the ground and there lays a sack of the Purple Urkel some poor soul has dropped. Theirs now. They twist one up and the smoke consumes their section of the sidewalk. The music store personnel evacuate them from the scene quickly and a mass migration towards Hippie Hill takes place. Had it not been for that they never would have ran into Jim Morrison 2009 with the sugar cubes. Funny coincidence right? The deal was struck up, street kid prices for them on account of the backpacks, sleeping bags, and guitar. As they finish their tall cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, they await blast off. Time to leave before too long and nothing yet.

The sugar cubes are in their mouths and they melt but not fast enough. Johnny chews his to finish the cube, anxious for the moment. The two gather their gear and walk down the hill. Talk about their new cosmic fortune, but before they exit the park, do they run into a clean cut young man with a light pin polo shirt and khaki pants. He has two paper bags with him, one in each hand. The two cosmic travelers don’t notice him but he interrupts their communication wonder.
“10 dollars,” he smiles, “anything in these bags. Top shelf liquors.”
The two take a peak in his bags and all that can be seen are the tops of large handle bottles. Kool grabs in and joyfully questions, “Knob Creek?”
Johnny sees the Jose but knows the Knob would be easier to keep in their rucksacks. They pay the man the ten dollars and both pass joyful laughter. On they walk to find where these sugar cubes will lead them.

Happily galloping down the Haight feeling a light alcohol buzz and wait! something more. Kool knew it was going to be a long ride by the first visuals, the world's vibrations. On their way to the gold cane Kool looks up at a tree, which begins to pop out at him like a 3D movie, and time slows.
“Quickly into the gold cane, let’s get a beer and gather our thoughts,” Kool calls to Johnny who is staring off into the day stars.
Entering the Cane the contrast of lights between outside and this dive is like fuel to this fire of acid. An overwhelming body rush lights a smile on Kool’s face. How retarded he must look as he orders a round of PBRs. No need to worry, they weren’t the only freaks around.
Next to him at the bar is a gorgeous blonde and her not so gorgeous overweight friend. Kool strikes up a conversation with the beauty and she immediately turns and faces him, putting her hand on his thigh. The LSD is in full force and this girl is feeding my good vibrations. Her unhappy camper companion is constantly bothering them. Kool signals to Johnny. Wingman.
The blonde wants to wear Kool's leather jacket and he let her. Johnny’s distraction efforts prove useless; Kool overhears him laughing with the bartender. The friend has cock block on her to do list and before too long is prodding her partner in front to leave.
“We’re going to Murio’s, will you meet us there?” she talks about a bar down the street a few blocks.
“Of course I will, give us fifteen minutes,” Kool smiles.
As they exit the bar another wave of psychedelic rush consumes them. They can’t stay here.
“Come on Johnny we’re going to Murio’s,” Kool commands.

They step out of the dark bar into the sunny street. Their eyes twinkle and everything has it’s own vibration; walkers vibe through their vortex, parked cars remain on the move, the sidewalk trips over itself.
Kool’s long legs crane him forward effortlessly and Johnny strides to keep up; following him after some girls, to another bar.
They walk in and the bar is vacant. Johnny begins to giggle and Kool looks around with a big grin. Johnny’s giggles become chuckles, which become deep felt laughter.
“Your friend can’t be in here,” the bartender commands Kool.
Johnny finds the man’s vibration to be stagnant and laughs harder over it. Knowing he’s having trouble controlling himself, Johnny steps out to collect his thoughts. The overbearing weight of his bag, which was burdensome while traveling, but now seems inconsequential, suddenly becomes too much for him to bear. Johnny unbuckles the chest straps to the rucksack and allows gravity to carry it to the ground.
“Books,” he says out loud to a parked car, “these books are weighting me down!”
He fumbles through his bags and takes out a Leon Uris, a Kinsley Amis, a Tom Wolfe, a few random authors of second-hand books. A Writer’s Hand Guide and a Guide to Literary Agents are the biggest and fattest books on him. Johnny is contemplating these last books, these books he checked out of the Santa Monica library to guide him to professional creative writing; he is contemplating leaving these books when he says, “But I need them,” to no one. Kool is standing over him, with a silly grin on his face.
“Literary guides!” he laughs, “you think you need these literary guides to write?! All you need is that notebook at your feet.” Johnny taps the notebook with his foot, having not noticed he took it, too, out of the bag. “That notebook,” Kool laughs again, “is all you really need.”

On their way out of the bar, they had cracked open their bottle of Knob Creek and indulged. Offering some to a few spare changers, Kool realized his mistake. A man can’t be standing on the street corners frying on acid swigging a giant bottle of whiskey.
“You guys hurry up with that,” he called back for the bottle.
With Johnny’s books unloaded onto the sidewalk and a high becoming intense, the two cosmic travelers moved to a place to clear their heads. Everywhere they stood a freak-out was pending.
“To north beach! We can meet some girls and have a beer!” Kool says this knowing that continuous motion was the only thing to save them.
They start walking down Haight Street and discover this is all they need, a small change of scene. They cross the street and stop in front of a vacant store. They don’t notice the weight of their bags on their shoulders and find entertainment in conversation, world discovering conversation.
The bus came right on schedule. Whatever time that was. Squeaking, grinding, and squealing to a stop the doors open with a Pssssst sound. This cosmic shuttle would deliver them to their destination, but not before they freak out everyone on the bus; with their wild eyes and nonsense jive talk that somehow makes perfect sense to them.
There they stood after toppling out of the back door on the infamous market street. A nexus of the universe where the most lowly homeless individuals and executive professionals clash in a fury of spare changes, crack tokes, credit card swipes, and shopping bags. Another cosmic bus ride and they had arrived at Columbus and Broadway. Strip clubs, fine dining, live music, and plenty of people. Perfect place to go unnoticed in their drunken acid frenzy.
Once again a swig off the Knob Creek, and off to Grant and Green where the blonde biker girls make eye contact with the two through the bar window. Straight inside. As they stowed their lives in the back, they smile. It felt good to relax and they now had the acid under control.
Through the night of several characters, they were spent. No rich smoking hot babes to beam them up to their place for love making and showers. It was another night of homelessness. Kool knew a spot back in the Haight district great for camping with a spectacular view. Back on the bus.
Sometimes a bus ride in San Francisco can be the best comedy club in town. Especially when drunk and on drugs. As Kool jokes with everyone on the back of the bus a man calls to him.
“Have you been flying tonight sir?”
“Matter of fact I have been,” Kool answers.

The two get off the bus at the base of Buena Vista Park. The burden of walking up the hill is heavy, but sleep is close. They slip into the playground and lay out their gear right on the sand. Halfway through the night, they have to move under the playground equipment because the sprinklers find them. But back to sleep is easy.
Johnny hates getting woken early in the morning and the rough voice of the park maintenance man is not soothing either. He pokes the two in the sides with his trash picker-upper and steps around them to sweep the playground. The two slowly stir and eventually they sit up to fold blankets and pack away sleeping bags. Johnny carries his rucksack over to a bench, out of the sand, and fumbles around for the cigarettes. He lights his and offers one to Kool.
The sky is overcast and the smoke that comes out of their mouths quickly blends in with the surrounding environment. Waking up in the park, on top of the hill, gives a picturesque view; where the night before downtown was sparkling, this morning it’s hiding under the blanket of clouds, hazed like their minds.

Coffee To The People. Many-a-morning Kool has spent on their couches silently pondering. He took a book from the bookshelves once, assuming it was a take-a-book leave a book policy. His friend claimed that it was stolen. “Oh, well, right. A secondhand book.” Kool thinks. The next day when he opened it, on the inside cover, it reads: “1000 curses to whoever steals this book.” Signed by the author.
That’s when she walked in. The girl whose name they will never remember but her hair was fire red. After making a comment about Johnny and his smile; the two travelers got involved in a conversation with her.
“Would you guys like to go smoke a joint?” she asks.
Of course they did. Grabbing their belongings they headed out the door of the coffee shop, heading towards the park they slept at the night before. The girl spends most of the time on her cell phone but the two are having fun sharing stories. Somehow they make plans to go in the girl’s rental car down to the wharf. Johnny and Kool looked at each other, knowing they were thinking the same thing: showers at her place.
Heading towards the car and a tie-died soul emerges from the bushes.
“You guys want a hit of acid?” he questions stumbling down the hill. Why not? After all, our brain could use a little kick after last night. The hippy snips three hits from his strip of L with miniature scissors and tweezers, handing them over one at a time. Done deal and they’re off. Thank you kind sir.

Everything becomes more visually stimulating. Colors are brighter, the vibration in the air becomes noticeable, and our bodies are relaxed.
“Shot Gun!” Johnny jokes as they approach the white Chevy Aspen. Jumping into the front passenger seat, Johnny slides into the leather seat comfortably. The interior is huge with air space and the girl is far away as she too jumps into the car. The outside world is cut off and entering the SUV with its controlled environment is foreign.
The girl is stiff at the steering wheel with her shoulders tight and tense. She pulls out of the parking space without relaxing off the wheel and drives down the street. Using her Blackberry to give directions to the wharf, she gets on the freeway heading South. They need to be going North.
The directions do eventually led them there and the girl’s contentment has shown from how she is now slouching in her seat.
“Red light!” Johnny shouts and she slams on the breaks, but does not move from her slouched position.
She parks the car on the top of the curviest road in the world. Kool and Johnny take pulls from the bottle of Knob and step out of the car. The girl is standing stiffly on the sidewalk and the two smile at her while lighting cigarettes. The red brick road snakes steeply, and cars drive down, slow, on tour.
They rest at the bottom and watch a group of ten Asian tourists take a group picture. The loud sound of a car stereo, rattling the car’s metal shell, can be heard on the top of the street. Turning to look up the hill, a black van, fat and solid, with no side widows, is rolling down the street.
“Who’s That Lady,” is the song vibrating out of the van. As it turns a bend, they get to see the van has a third set of wheels, giving it three axels and six wheels. The driver is a black man. He smiles at them as he slowly drives by and gives the peace sign. The travelers smile and wave back.
The walk back up is a lot more challenging than going down and they have to stop every time to puff on their cigarettes. Before they get to the top of the street, the loud sound of a car stereo is heard and the black van appears, ready to again roll down the street. The black man smiles at them again as he passes by. They do the same.
Getting back to the car and another pull from the bottle, they are off to the water. They smoke a joint on the pier, stop to listen to the street musicians, and slip into a blues bar Kool knows about. The music doesn’t start for another couple hours, but they dine there.
The girl is anxious to get back to her car to not get a parking ticket, and they’re ready to travel on.
“How do you feel about letting us take a shower at your place?” Kool asks the girl with a sly smirk and nods his head toward Johnny.
At first she doesn’t like the idea. “I have a boyfriend at home,” she says.
“That’s fine,” Johnny smiles. “We just want showers.”
She admits she feels comfortable with them and allows them over. Her hotel room is downtown San Fran. The city is hot and rock hard with metal and cement. They walk in the hotel with all their gear and don’t look at the receptionist.
The girl’s room is small, only room for a bed and not much more; a desk and a lamp.
“First shower!” Kool votes.
Johnny watches television with the girl and tries a small conversation. She slips under the covers. He is anxious for the shower. Kool comes out wrapped in a towel and Johnny jumps in the small shower, spending time under the hot water. When he comes out, Kool is laying on the bed with the girl still under the covers. Kool smiles at Johnny and Johnny give him a nod. They pack their bags and say their goodbyes.
Out on the street of downtown, they give each other high-fives, in the bright sun reflecting off all the glass buildings surrounding them.

“You know, I think she wanted us to fuck her,” Kool says to Johnny as they walked away from the hotel downtown and towards a bus back to Haight Street. The acid was subtle and the drunk inspired them for more. Up to the Haight to call back the Jim Morrison 2009 from the day before. They call him but find out he is unable to meet them. Into the park for a street sale, but these are always difficult situations. As they approach the scene a dreadlock girl passes advertising mushroom chocolates. Perfect, lets switch to the organic shit. The deal is struck and they thank her. She gives them her number and she departs. Atop the Hill they finish the Knob Creek and head out looking forward to the oncoming mushrooms.
Walking down the street and fresh out of the Knobster, they pass a homeless man who asks Kool to play him a song on the guitar. This man is drunk and sitting on the sidewalk in front of the movie theatre.
“Sorry buddy gotta cruise,” Kool answers.
“Wait! I’ll give you a beer,” he calls out as they pass.
Kool stops and throws down his case, opening it fast.
“Where’s my beer at?” Kool demands.
The man reaches into his hobo sack and pulls out several beers, and by the stars alone, another bottle of Knob Creek. Full, unopened. Kool looks up at Johnny to see him looking right back. It had to be fate for this to happen.
Kool is playing a song and the hobo is excited. A group of tourists in straw hats and sunglasses watch from five feet away, also enjoying the song. Next thing they know, there is a clean-cut stranger in front of Kool yelling at him to stop playing the guitar. This man pulls Kool’s strumming hand away and gets in close to yell more.
“Your playing in front of the fire exit to the movie theatre, everyone can here you in there!” he rages.
“Sorry, but you have no right to rip my hand off the guitar. You just assaulted me sir!” Kool laughs. The man probably didn’t think about that.
He begins to apologize but before he speaks two words the hobo has his shirt off and is yelling at Kool, stating he’s going to “fuck you up”. From behind, the fattest, most redneck-looking tourist gets involved.
“Fuck you guys, he was just playing a song,” straw hat man says.
“No, fuck you!” replies the hobo.
The hobo, the movie theatre employee, and the tourist are now fully engaged in a back in forth of “fuck yous” and everyone is ready to fuck each other up. Fuck!
“Fuck this I played a song and he said I was getting a beer,” Kool tells Johnny.
“Check his backpack,” he replies thinking quickly.
Kool opens the hobo’s backpack while the remaining tourist watch and the three knuckleheads are in a fuck you shoving contest in the street now. There’s Kool’s beer, but wait, there’s the Knobster too. Grabbing the bourbon, the beer, and his own gear, Kool calls to Johnny, ”Follow me!”
They barrel down the street in a run and around the corner.
“You got the Knob?” asks Johnny.
“Damn straight I got the Knob, come on. Keep running!”
With a bottle of bourbon, the mushrooms kicking in, and their exhaustion from the run, they decide to take a rest in Dolores Park on their way to the Mission.

They find refuge under a tree. Their heavy breathing is encouraged through their inability to stop laughing. They open the beer bottle and quickly share the drink. After lighting cigarettes, they’re off to the Mission.
Their walk is quick and they are excitedly talking amongst themselves. They stop at a gas station for cigarettes and oranges. Rainbow banners line the streets and they follow one down to Dolores Park.
A small group of Mexican men are huddled under a large tree at the top of a hill. Walking by, Kool trips and falls. He’s laughing and Johnny falls too, unable to control laughing. The men are looking over at them and one of them calls out, “You guys alright over there?”
The two travelers wave and say they’re fine. Finding a tree of their own, they sit under a dark tree. The sun has just gone down but there is still light out. Johnny is trying to describe the beautiful movement of a tree in the wind when, an instant later, he realizes there is no wind.
The mushrooms are hitting hard and they have the excitement that all possibilities are endless. After a cigarette and a couple pulls from the whiskey bottle, they stand, throw on their bags and begin down the hill.
Trucking down a street, Kool stops a young businesswoman to ask her where they can catch a bus. She is friendly, after the initial shock of his enthusiastic questioning, directs them a couple more streets down to Market Street.
Coming up to the street, two girls on bicycles are rolling by. Kool asks them where they can catch a bus. The girls stop and ask them where they’re trying to get to. The two cosmic travelers find out the girls are cosmic travelers too, from Italy, a small town near Milan. They have been in the States for a month now and will be returning home in a couple days.
Tid-bits of a cosmic story and how Kool and Johnny met days earlier interest the girls to park their bikes. They offer them whiskey, which the girls are hesitantly interested in. Sitting on the curb of a pet store parking lot, they sit cross-legged across from each other, and pass around the bottle.
“Living American Literature,” seems to be the theme of conversation. The girls are not eager for the two to leave, but they are anxious to move on.
They say goodbye and make plans to meet up before they leave. Catching the F train, their buzz is high. They’re sharing jokes and stories with fellow riders. Johnny’s loud chuckle only encourages their own laughter.
Two punk kids sitting down next to them ask what they had in plan for the night.
“Whiskey,” they joke.
Offering them a pull, they are happy to accept. They all take one as openly discreet as they can. The kids hop off a couple stops later, and soon it is their stop. They say goodbye to the people on the train who return their smiles and waves. Hopping off, the crisp night air is refreshing.

Off the F train and in full peak of mushrooms they stagger feeling buzzed from the Knobster. It’s another bus and back to North Beach. Party central. The two step off the bus and onto the intersection of Columbus and Broadway. A quick trot over to Café Trieste and they cross over to the Saloon to find out what band is playing. Standing in front of the Saloon, dinner falls into our laps.
“Would you guys like some chicken wings?” asks a kind Asian lady passing by.
“You know we would,” they laugh.
A stranger watching the scene asks, “So you guys just get free chicken or what?”
“That’s how it works brother.”
The two duck into the Saloon quickly, but finding nothing, they are right back out and headed to another bar where they hear the live blues music cranking from the open front windows. Drinking beer and growing tired of the scene shortly, Kool gazes across the street at the strip club where they met the doorman the night before. The acid is long gone, the booze settling nicely, and the mushrooms still playing tricks on our eyes. Kool has an idea. They were to go into the strip club and acquire some MDMA to further the party.
“Hey you guys,” the doorman greets.
“We’re coming in!” they inform him.
“Sure, I’ll let you guys in for free.”
“Sweet!”
It costs them three dollars to check their gear at the front desk and they walk through the heavy curtain and into the smoke filled room. A full nude girl is on the stage and doing a great job spreading her legs. Two young guys don’t go unnoticed entering the club and the strippers flock to them. Many inquiries about lap dances take place but the two stick to business. They want to party and they need some drugs.
“Come with me,” one girl says.
Into the back room they go just like one would for a lap dance. After entering and closing the curtains the girl opens her purse.
“How many do you guys want?”
“Two,” Kool smiles.
The price is not much and she pulls out two tiny baggies with a white powder inside. The two break them open, swallow, and lick the bags clean. Just the powdery taste makes them feel good. Taking a seat to relax and let the ecstasy take hold, they watch the girls dance for them. The DJ comes over the sound system, “We’ve got four tickets to Motley Crue at Shoreline we are giving away! I need two guys and two girls up on stage right now.”
Kool smacks Johnny on the arm and they are up and on stage before anyone could blink. The contest is who can climb to the top of the stripper pole fastest using only upper body strength. The contest is divided for guys and girls. Kool and Johnny, being friends, are automatically winning two tickets.
Johnny makes it to the top first and Kool fakes his attempt to make it look like he really tried. Motley Crue here they come. The DJ in the back booth gives Johnny the tickets and they take a seat back in their original chairs. A few strippers coming and going to give them company and the Molly is kicking in heavy. They both feel as good as they ever have. The night is approaching 2 a.m. and the party will soon be over in this neighborhood. They needed a dance rave and Kool knew just the spot.
“C’mon Johnny,” he called, “we’re getting out of here.”
“Where are we going?” Johnny asks.
“We’ll end up where we end up,” Kool answers knowing they were going to the End-up.
The two jump into a cab and off towards the infamous club that never closes. The End-up. The cab driver drops them off and they stay in the parking lot across the street finishing their Knob Creek, knowing that it’s too late to purchase any alcohol. They had their Molly, though, and that would keep up the dancing until sunrise.

The strobe lights flicker whites, blues, and reds across their faces and the trailing gets jumbled as other strobe lights wash over them. Everyone is sexy, swaying and bouncing along with the House music. Girls enjoy their loose movements and they find themselves separated from each other for who knows how long.
Johnny is making out with a girl by the bar, and as Kool is passing, being towed by two girls, he nudges Johnny and invites him and his girl to a back booth. Sloppy kissing and fondling of every body part keeps all five entertained.
Kool finds escape off to the side, talking with another girl who was hanging out at the bar. He is lost in her dark eyes, endlessly deep. Although the club is still full, the vibe is starting to tire.
Back on the dance floor and some new girls invite Johnny to their car to smoke a joint. He finds Kool and they gather their gear to follow them out the club. The car, parked across the street, quickly becomes baked and is rocking with laugher.
The new high has given them the munches. They want to go to a diner but the girls want the travelers to go home with them. Not having food at their place, the girls drop the guys off at a twenty-four hour café. It’s approaching 6 a.m.
The two cosmic travelers are laughing to each other. Over breakfast burritos and pancakes, they get the first opportunity to think about the past three days they’ve known each other.
“You see,” Johnny laughs, “This is the type of stuff I write about.”
Kool looks up and smiles. “And I’m going to help you with your next book.”

+++

The Redwoods in this midnight hour are dark and hidden creatures, stout and enormous in their ever so omnipresence of powerful stillness. The soft and decaying dirt ground is moist from a not recent rain; the fallen pine needles, with their sharp smell aromanates this mystic cosmos. A small lake is hiding behind the ridge, where the wooden posts of a rickety pier begins its stretch, assumedly, into a watery darkness.
A low bass is felt vibrating through the woods. Lue, the red bearded shaman, waves Johnny, Kool, and Harmonica Mike along in followance of the music. Around a bend and out of the valley, the four find themselves in a electronica underworld. Bright neon colors of lime green and hot pink are illuminated by black lights. The smell of incense and hashish musks the dusty dryness of the small open field, where hundreds of human creatures are dancing around, opening their perception to the mind warping electro music; loud and heavy in its hypnotizing way.
"The Cosmos is a blood cell in my walking toe," Johnny thinks outloud.
Lue leads the pack around the dancers (mystic unicorns, wizards, gypsies, and a array of goblins, vampires, and sorcerers) all dressed in nylon leather (pink and/or black), high heels with higher boots, fur and feathers, and anything that is shinny or smooth.
A hexagon gazebo close by is housing lounge chairs and couches with large, fluffy blankets and pillows.
"Float here," Lue suggests Johnny and Kool. "The guru is yonder and surly asks for our patience."
The two smile and watch the other two wander into the dark woods. Kool steps up onto the wooden floor of the gazebo while Johnny hangs by the front, slowly bouncing along with the beat of the music.
There is a group of three fairies snuggling together on a couch in the back of the gazebo. They are whispering and giggling to each other while under a tin foil blanket. When Kool approaches the girls, they first duck under the cover, but after he says, in his young cowboy way, with his voice low and deep and suggestive, "The blue star can light the prairie even on a cloudy night," do they pull the covers off and invite him, by pulling him between them, to join their little nest. The fairies sprinkle his face with a fine dust and whisper lullabies in his ear, "A trip around the moon on rainbow wings can lead an adventurer to grapefruit music," and, "The flowers of the trees bloom cinnamon kisses for those who pass by," and, "Wine is the nectar from pearls of love that mothers cry for their happiness in you and me."
Johnny, dancing and bouncing in slow, wavy movements, is having too much fun; all his front teeth are showing in his smile. A human butterfly in green sequence and white wings floats up to him and flutters around, dancing and twirling in encouragement. She circles Johnny, and upon completion, finds herself sparked with giggles from Johnny's own smile and laughter.
The butterfly leaps toward him for a kiss. With her arms around his neck, her moist lips caress his and her tongue is playful. She slips her hands onto his shoulders and slides them down to his chest. Her wings start to flutter and she slowly pulls away from Johnny, with her hand following his arm until she finds his hand. Bouncing to dance, she has him lead her around him, Johnny standing still and his arm wrapping over his head, before she bounds to a stop, facing him, with a mischievous grin. The butterfly has Johnny hold out his hand with palm up. From a small vial, she drips three drops. Looking down at his palm, then up at her, Johnny understands and licks it up. The butterfly slips in for another wet kiss and is off again, fluttering into the lively dance crowd.
"Psychedelic women," Harmonic Mike chimes in from behind.
Johnny casually turns around. The Wa-ing from a close-by speaker is warping his mind, making him feel unbalance, off the level.
"Goldfish swimming up stream after the red planet," Mike smiles.
"What!?" Johnny laughs.
Kool comes back out of the gazebo with a large grin on his face. The three smile, laugh at each other; each in their own cosmic world. They turn to watch the crowd of dancers, the neon stage, the DJ and percussionist; lost in a vortex. Mike grounds everybody with a, "An army exists only if it has soldiers. A-hem!" And with a salute, "The colonel has the artillery."
The three float away from the electro world and creep through the dark woods, with the low bass music trailing. A flashlight is pulled out of Mike's briefcase. He takes the lead with Kool quickly in pursuit. Johnny falls behind, losing pace with the white orb dimly illuminating the way through the woods of a black and white movie. Small embankments blanketed with thick bushes creep into movement with their many leaf shadows. The large Redwoods are firmly planted but jump out, thrusting their fat smiling bark.
Johnny, lost behind in the dark and slowly trying to follow but only able to watch the light bound away. It stops as Johnny is inching down a dirt path through some bushes. "Dial into the radio, spaceman," Johnny hears the light call. He carefully takes larger steps through the dark woods and catches up close enough to see the rocky ground when the light bounces again to life.
Down a steep embankment, the three find level ground after causing a small landslide of loose dirt and rock. A valley scattered with old school buses and RVs greets them. They follow an old Warrior bus, leading them into the dark neighborhood. It is quiet. Breaking sticks under their feet can be heard over their hushed giggling. They scuffle over dirt, but still the Wa-ing music is lingering with them.
Mike leads them to and around some campsites with fold-out tables where food and drinks are left out, and living room cushioned couches with rugs, crusted with dirt, complete the outdoor rooms.
Coming up to a camper, Mike knocks on the door. A man with balding buzz brown hair peeks out with sleepy eyes. He invites them into his small living space, barely enough to close the door behind. The man knows why they've come but is in no mood to host. He hands the travelers each a small centimeter square paper and wishes them, "spiritual journeys," before he shoos them out. The three stumble and catch themselves on a king size bed, lavished with blankets and pillows. They put the treats in their mouths and are on their way back through the dark woods to return to play with the many mystical creatures.
________________


"Wait, wait, wait... dude!" Kool interrupts the story. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he laughs.
"Dude, this is how it happened!!" Johnny and his beard giggle. "I'm illustrating a cosmic world found on a cosmic adventure through the COSMOS, man!" The two laugh amongst themselves.
"Yeah," Kool nods his head, his long blond hair waving with him. "That trip was pretty cosmic, man. Pretty fucking comic! But that was long after a lot happened. You gotta describe how we sat down and wrote the beginnings of COSMIC TRAVELERS and are selling it on the street while playing music and meeting some crazy characters which leads us to a party and getting Beamed up with some hot chicks who want to love us and tour the cosmos with us."
Johnny is laughing at Kool laughing at his own rant.
"That's all part of it," Johnny tries to contribute, his eyes watery and his cheeks rosie. His voice is high from heavy breathing. "But it's also about creating the scene of a man standing on the corner of the street. It's raining out, he's only got on one shoe, and of course, no raincoat. He's getting soaked, but is focused on counting his pennies to trade with another character for a broken rear view mirror that would be traded for a different broken mirror with yet another crazy character. All to provide for some vice that helps the man stand on the corner of the street, with one shoe on, counting his pennies."
The two are crying from laughing so hard about life and its circle. Johnny gathers himself first.
"Dude," he laughs, "...dude!" Johnny takes a deep breath. "That's what I'm trying to do, I guess. Recreating a scene; a crazy cosmic scene. One we just experienced. It'll be a little piece of our cosmic existence in a cosmic world created from cosmic traveling!!"
Kool is laughing over an unlit cigarette. "Dude!" he tries to say. "Every new adventure is a new experience. And these new experience are happening every day. Every second. We are always in the game. Always playing with the cosmos."
"If we can give people a taste of what's happening," Johnny joins in, "then maybe they'd seek out the cosmos and get high too!"
"Exactly," Kool smiles and lights his smoke. "Now," he exhales, "let me tell the part about getting Beamed."
______________


The loud rock music is heavy in its old bluesy sort of way. The small bar, known as the oldest bar in San Francisco, has two narrow swinging doors facing the side road and the alley. Anytime those doors swing open to let in or out a crazy character, the music takes the opportunity to jump out and play in the streets; the heart felt wail of the sax, the mystic rhythm of the drum, and the familiar cry of the electric guitar.
Standing out front on the corner of road and alley, eyeing the swinging doors, are Johnny, baggy pants and fur hooded jacket, and Kool, tall and long in his leather jacket and jeans. Rucksack and guitar are at their feet and they are contemplating how to spend the remainder of the night. They are back in the City, rested from their short escape across the Bay.
"You know," Kool's cowboy voice sings, "hanging is the most doing."
Johnny's head nods from understanding and from the last pull from the whiskey bottle. The two travelers have found themselves wandering North Beach, playing music and sharing stories for anyone who walked by. They earned enough cash (seven dollars and eighty seven cents and three cigarettes) to buy a small bottle of Ancient Age, a tallboy of PBR, and a bag of peanuts. The booze and smokes got used up off of Jack Kerouac Alley.
There, they earned a few more cigarettes from a couple of Kool's original folk/country songs. Although Johnny, out of respect, wasn't intending to sell copies of COSMIC TRAVELERS, an interested middle-aged woman slowly interrogated the two travelers about themselves and was adamant about supporting their cause.
"To see two fine young men obviously living off their art," the woman smiles deep into their eyes, "To see that and to hear your stories, coming from you! How can I not support?"
"Ummm," the travelers casually suggest.
The woman leaves them some money in exchange for a booklet and is off, back into the nearby bar. The two, filled with excitement and positive energy, head off to the liquor store to buy another bottle of whiskey and more peanuts. They are taking fresh pulls from the bottle, in front of The Saloon, contemplating their night, when Kool hears his name called from behind.
A middle aged man jogs across the street to greet Kool with a hug. The two laugh at the coincidence of, yet again, running into each other after months of hiatus. Johnny, standing off to the side, is contently patient while the two catch up. Kool nods his head to Johnny as if to say, "See, cosmic!" but instead he says, "Johnny, this is Harmonica Mike."
The three polish off the remainder of the whiskey bottle; it went around twice. Mike, as always, is equipped with his own gear, hand-blown glass pipes and pendants. Plus all of his harmonicas in his pockets. He was originally on his way to the liquor store himself, and heads across the street to get another bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes. Johnny and Kool, having not moved from their street/alley corner, are smiling at some women out front smoking a cigarette.
"Did you fart?" Kool asks the women with a grin. The two, shocked and disgusted, awkwardly giggle to each other and look back at Kool in confusion. "Because you blow me away," Kool finishes in mid-laughter.
"That is probably the worst pick-up line I have ever heard," one of the women says. The two shift their weight against the dark bar wall.
"Was I picking you up?" Kool laughs again and looks over at Johnny. Johnny just smiles back.
The women giggle amongst themselves and move off the wall. The street light casts a shadow that keep them in the dark. The same woman's voice comes out, "What's your names?" She steps into the light and asks, "What's your stories?"
The woman is tall with long blond hair. She is wearing a tight short red dress that exposes her mile long smooth legs. Her chest, full and inviting, crowns her dress. Her friend follows into the light. She is slightly shorter than the other but still has legs to match. Her short dark hair coordinates with her short dark dress.
"Well..." the two travelers coo.
Mike comes back, in high spirits, with spirits. He pats Kool on the shoulder and breaks in-between the travelers, not noticing the women until he follows their line of sight. The women, still a few feet away, stop their approach. Both take final drags from their smokes, and toss them onto the street before turning back toward the bar.
"Two ladies are trouble indeed," Johnny says in a sly voice. The blond keeps walking into the bar, but the other looks back over her shoulder and smiles. The three giggle to themselves and Mike pulls out his cigarette pack for the three each to take one. They keep their throats moist with whiskey pulls.
Finding themselves just up the street, the three are looking for a place to set up and play music. A group of five middle aged people (three men and two women) are walking down the narrow sidewalk while the three travelers are walking up toward them. The cluster of people creates a roadblock.
"You want to listen to some music!?" Mike enthusiastically asks the group. Two of the men keep walking with pompous shunning, and the two women are hesitant. The one remaining man smiles and says, "Sorry, we don't have any change."
"Change!?" Mike laughs. "We'll do it for free. A gift from us to you."
The man looks down at Kool's guitar case, then at the women, and finally back at the travelers. The three smile back at him in nonchalant coolness.
"Alright," the man agrees. "A quick song."
Kool lays down and unsnaps his guitar case. Mike digs around his pockets for, "A C sharp?" he asks Kool.
"Do you have a F?" Kool looks up while Mike continues to dig. Johnny is standing patiently to the side.
Kool smiles up at small crowd while crouched and tuning the guitar. "This is a cowboy song," he exhales deeply. Strumming his fingers over the strings, Kool tightens or loosens them with cool concentration. Mike warms up, too, by trying to follow notes Kool tunes. Johnny, still to the side, next to the women, gives them a silly grin.
"Aight," Kool says and clears his throat. Mike crouches down to join Kool. They do some final adjustments with themselves and their instruments. After a short silence, they slowly begin; mellow and heartfelt. Kool strums the guitar while Mike subtlety blends in.
The song is layered and builds slowly through out; rising to a smooth country rock at the chorus, and bringing it back to ground at the bridge. Mike does a mellow wailing on the harmonica throughout. The lyrics speak of roaming the country, "free, like a cowboy should be," but the narrator is currently locked up in a Vegas jail for, "looking like an outlaw."
The two women and man are stunned with how beautiful and professional the song was done. Another couple, having stopped behind during the song, are clapping with excitement. Kool and Mike stand, smiling, happy with how well they collaborated together.
Waking from a trans, the man from the original group asks, "Can I buy you guys some beers? We're heading to the bar right over here." He doesn't have to ask twice before the travelers are re-packing; guitar in case, harmonicas in pockets, and rucksack on back. They all start walking down street, the man excitedly asking Kool how long he's been playing. "Only four years," is the surprised answer. Johnny is keeping up the rear of the pack, talking with one of the women.
"You don't play an instrument?" she kindly asks.
"Well..." Johnny sighs, "I'm more into gonzo journalism and self-publishing literature."
"Oh!?" she replies. The group is at the front of the bar, getting their IDs checked. "You can tell me about it over a drink," she smiles, shyly looking up at Johnny. He smiles back and says, "Yeah, I'd like that."
_______________


"Aight, man," Johnny interrupts the story. "I love that shit! It's really fucking cool how you can just bust out the guitar and people would be like, 'Uh, I love you! What do you need that I can provide for you?'"
"Yeah..." Kool smiles, knowing he went through a lot of shit and bad times for him to have established a powerful emotion and connection in his songs. It required a lot of patience, practice, and time for Kool to have gotten to this point in his musical talent. And he knows there is even more to learn. But he also knows sometimes simply having a guitar, and not needing to play it, has invited a lot of people and events to occur to him. "Yeah..." Kool sighs again, this time deeper in thought. "But the guitar is just a tool. It can only do so much before it requires me, my personality and social skills, to complete the Beam up. You know this, Johnny. You rock the scene just as hard as I do and you don't have a guitar."
"I suppose your right," Johnny straightens up, raising his shoulders and keeping his head high. "Establishing a connection with someone does require an interaction, a continuous interaction, for that person to want to complete the Beam up. Social skills, is definitely important. But before you can create a connection with someone, you must at least be at the scene, saying "Hi" to that cute girl over there, instead of being too shy to approach her."
"Manifestations require some effort," Kool agrees. "But finish the story! In fact, no! Tell another, but similar story, that illustrates what we mean."
_______________

The tweeker from the night before has calmed to the point that he isn't shouting at the top of his lungs. He is, however, by the basketball courts, still clasping and loosening his hands, and occasionally jetting his arms out in quick movements before he controls himself with a self-hug.
Johnny and Kool, themselves sobering from a night of magic mushrooms and LSD, are waiting in line in People's Park with the other homeless and vagabonds. Everyone is trying to be patient as the old hippies and college students serve out vegan stew, salads, and cookies. They also provide a mysterious red berry smoothie poured out of a Gatorade cooler.
The two travelers spent the previous night posted up under one of the buildings on the campus at Berkley University. After a week and a half in the City, the two needed to find escape and finish the beginning writings of COSMIC TRAVELERS.
They spent all the previous afternoon sitting out front of the Mediterranean Cafe, passing back and forth Johnny's composition notebook, taking turns with the pen and paper to narrate their story. Before their vacation, they were individually able to write down their own stories of what was happening to them before they cosmically met. Now they're collaborating, working together, taking turns, to document their cosmic travels. But first, they must eat! and they are waiting patiently in line with their fellow men and women to get a free lunch.
"Aight," Kool sighs, "once we're done with the writing, then we got to get it in production."
"In time, my friend," Johnny sympathizes, "In time. We need to finish the writing first, and we should only focus on that before we get too far ahead of ourselves."
The two travelers politely accept their food and find a nice sunny spot on the grass where they can eat in peace. They both smoke a cigarette after their meals, and they patiently relax in the sun while their body and minds find a cosmic balance. Once they become more sedated than intended, they throw on their rucksacks and head to the coffee shop to write.
A brunette girl, the same age as the travelers, provides them both with a free coffee. They accept it with smiles and take it outside to work.
"We must really had made an impression on her this morning when we came in," Johnny smirks.
"When one is themselves," Kool smiles, "impressions are more true."
The two spend the rest of the afternoon on the front terrace writing, playing guitar, talking with passer-byers, and getting free coffees from the brunette. A small group of Hera Krishna pass and offer the two dinner if they'd also like to join in their nightly lectures. The two are excited and look forward to the experience.
"Fuck a nut, man," Johnny exclaims after putting down the pen, "I do believe we're finished with this chapter!"
"Fuck yeah!" Kool joins in. "That was a lot of fun!!"
"Huh!" Johnny smiles.
The two are slowly packing up and saying their goodbyes to their new friends who hang around the coffee shop when the brunette comes out the door.
"Where you guys going?" she inquires.
They tell her about the lecture and dinner.
"Well..." she smiles and looks down at her feet. "I get off shortly. Maybe you'd like to come to my place and have dinner with me...?"
The two are a little surprised with the invite and are thrown off guard. They agree to dinner and offer to contribute something from the grocery.
"Oh, no," the brunette smiles. "I've got everything I need. But... but maybe you could bring a bottle of whiskey?"
The two travelers smile and agree. They come back shortly and find the girl waiting for them outside the coffee shop. Her house is only a couple blocks walking and they use the time to introduce themselves.
At her house, everyone gets to work. First they smoke a joint and have some shots. The brunette finds herself in the kitchen cutting up vegetables for her "special" beef curry. Johnny is on the computer typing as fast as he can. And Kool is strumming away on the guitar while making sure everyone is high on weed and drink.
The meal is delicious, half of the first chapter is typed out, and the three are relaxing over another joint. The brunette's roommate, a tall blond, comes home and is excited to have company. She pulls herself a drink, turns on the radio, and encourages everybody to dance.
Drink after drink is drunk and dance after dance is danced. A bottle of red wine is opened and finished. Their minds get tired of socializing and physical connection becomes highly desired. It's hard to say how it happened. Very subtle. A shirt off here. A bra gone there. Boxers and panties dropped. The night seemed to go on forever for those four. And it did. They all shared an experience that enlightened themselves where time had no meaning and space was all used up.
Sleep did come and so did the hot noon sun. Johnny is the first to stir and peels the blonde's body off of him. He tries to roll off the bed without waking the others and does so although his movement is heavy.
He makes himself a cup of coffee and turns on the computer. Smoking a cigarette, Johnny is staring out the window into the summer sun that is slightly shaded by a big green oak tree.
Johnny spent hours typing but he finds himself smoking another cigarette when Kool comes up to him with a silly grin.
"Finished the typing," Johnny says and takes a drag from the cigarette.
"And now we take it to another level," Kool understands.
Kool's mellow strumming on the guitar slowly stirs the girls. The two travelers embrace them with love and thanks, but they must be moving on. Today is the Berkley World Music Festival and today is the day COSMIC TRAVELERS becomes ready for sale. A copy store off of Telegraph Road helps them put their chapter from the JumpDrive onto one of the store's computer. Eventually the guy takes it to the copier.
Only ten copies are made at first. Ten booklets. Ten beginnings.
The two travelers, with more positive energy exuberant from them that the sun itself, head back to People's Park to listen to some music, meet some people, and sell some literature.









+++
The Second Cosmic Chapters
+++


THE BIG VOSSMAN

Traveling the cosmos requires constant attention. One must follow the appropriate routes even if it may amount to nonsense to everything else. All cosmic travelers know that the value of experience greatly exceeds that of tangible goods.
I found myself wandering the mountainside following the reggae festival. My new '81 VW van had served me well throughout our first festival. The next festival would take 400 miles to reach and I knew we could not make it alone. As I trodded along, I asked the universe to send me with the proper companions for the journey ahead.

JOHNNY OPIUM

"Cougar Mountain Hot Springs," the man says to me in a cool voice, as if he has revealed some quality insider's knowledge. "You head up there at night and there's always young kids your age skinny dipping and smoking their herbs."
I give him a reassuring smile, pull my rucksack from the back seat of his construction truck, and toss the bag on the curb.
"I'll remember that," I say as I check my things; making sure I didn't leave anything in this kind stranger's truck. My rucksack, carrier bag, and heavy jacket are in a small pile next to an isolated tree resting in a cement bed on this quiet city street. The only thing I'd have in my pockets are my Colorado ID, a lighter, and my pouch of shag...
"Oh, wait!" I laugh and step up to the cab. "I forgot my tobacco."
The man patiently waits as I search the creases of the seat. I find the pouch and hold it up with excitement. "And here," he smiles and hands me something in his cupped hand. "Just in case we didn't smoke enough of it already." He laughs and gives me a wink when I look up at him after seeing the green nug he's given me. I laugh with him and jump down from the truck, closing the door.
The air is warm, yet intensely cool from the long setting of the mid-summer sun. I take a deep breath.
"Huh..." I say outloud to myself.
What I am led to believe is downtown Eugene is surprisingly small. There are few cars on the road and the buildings don't go higher than three stories. This being my first time in Eugene, my first time in Oregon! and it seems I got what I asked for. Before dropping me off, the man in the construction truck informed me, "If you're looking for escape, Eugene is the place for you."
And escape was what I was looking for. Six weeks roaming around the Bay area was fun, but a strong desire to keep heading North was encouraging me to seek unpredictable adventure.
I found my opportunity while playing my harmonica on Haight Street. I was spanging up change so I could head into the Gold Cane and chill with Kool Run-Ins and the rest of the guitar playing lunatics. A familiar face pasted me but what has become my drug hazed, alcohol buzzed, dirty stank of a lifestyle has numbed my awareness (on that day). He, on the other hand, noticed me.
"It was the beard," he admitted to me later. "I knew I've met that beard before."
"Motherfucker!" I laugh hysterically on the street and give him a big hug. He, an old smoker friend from university days in Amsterdam, the last I heard was wrapping up his degree in the North East.
He has spent the summer road-tripping across the U.S. scouting solar power and self-sustaining farms. Now, he has found home in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. An invite to his place for a smoke opens a flood of cosmic storytelling, from both ends. It has been a year and a half since we last saw each other, and much cosmic traveling has been done.
"Reggae on the River" my cosmic friend brings up as his next festival to attend. The day fest, being held in Humboldt County, I take as an omen to keep traveling. The festival is this weekend, only giving me days to say goodbye to newly acquainted friends. Kool was in the process of swinging down to Southern California to hang out with many of his girlfriends. I didn't say goodbye to him but, "Until I see you again."

The four hour car ride was filled with spliffs and Rastafarianism. My friend and I left Babylon on a cosmic adventure and followed the California coast North in search of Zion.
I didn't have any money for a ticket and he brought just enough for himself to cover expenses. Making a fake wristband and hopping the fence was alright with me, while my friend contributed his money to the music. The festival was low-key enough that I ran into no authority sneaking in.
We smoked weed, hung out in the Eel River, and listened to reggae music. Tanya Stephens was there and so was the Mighty Diamonds. All but two of the acts were from Jamaica.
After the music, we bummed food from the vendors, which they were happy to share their leftovers. Mmm... sautéed mushrooms. Wanting to camp, but not wanting to do so in a campsite, we aimlessly drive North on the 101. The turn-off, "Avenue of the Giants," sounded enticing. Our excitement of sleeping under some epic Redwoods made us antsy as we were setting up tent. We found a nice pull-off spot, but the darkness prevented us from seeing this amazing forest. We could feel it's energy and that made us anxious to explore the next morning.
The morning piss got me out of the tent first. Stepping out to monstrous Redwoods is indescribable. The feeling one gets after a refreshing nap under an apple tree is multiplied here to the degree that will bring a man to tears of joy. The energy is so powerful in this mystic morning I can see it flow threw the air like a gentle stream.
My friend soon joined me outside and we smoked a spliff in the forest's honor. Coming out of a Redwood high isn't the easiest thing. The stout trunks are wide, but tall too. Their competitiveness for sunlight has left the trees' branches reaching forever into the sky. This leaves a majority of the trunk bellow bare, giving the sensation of being in a grand hall. The moss and ferns are happy to decorate with their variety of greens; dark and lime, bright and damp, yellow and covering the forest vastness.
But out of there we got. Or more into it. Arcada, California is where we ended up that day. More Redwoods, but this time with a beach.
Within our first moments in Arcada, we stopped at the town square for a breather, when an old hippy wearing a tie-die t-shirt and headband, rolls up on his bicycle. He introduces himself as Brian and asks how our travels have been. We tell him about the reggae festival and he says he was listening to it on the radio.
Brian invites us over to his woodshop for a smoke. We accept his invitation, but maybe later in the day. Exploring the Redwoods, parks, city and beach took all day. We decided, afterward, it'd be cool to stop by Brian's to smoke a few bowls.
Finding his place was easy enough from his directions. He gives us a wave from the door as if he was just expecting us to arrive. Cosmic travelers sharing generations of cosmos. We happily share stores over the pipe. Brian was happy to keep us entertained with stories. Stories of his youth hunting possums with the neighborhood kids, (at this point a short man with a long gray beard comes in and joins in the story telling, confirming parts because he, too, was there. They excuse themselves as they leave us along for a quick second to go into Brian's office. They come back out with a smoking pipe and retell the possum story), and stories of his days in the sixties stationed in Germany for the U.S. Army.
Brian drifts into talking about his wood chairs that he makes in his woodshop. He gathers tree branches and after cleaning and polishing them, he wraps and bends these branches into lovely wide and comfortable love-seats and couches. This has been a hobby of his since he was a teenager.
A couple homebrew bottles have appeared and been emptied. Darkness outside has been around for a bit. Brian invites us to stay for dinner, rice and beans. We are more than happy to stay.
"Good," Brian smiles, his long curly bangs bouncing over his headband, "that'll provide plenty of time for me to tell you about my encounter."

"There I was," Brian begins as he gives the rice a stir with a wooden spoon, "on a sea cliff overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. Me and my buddy found ourselves there late night, tripping on mushrooms. It was late in the trip, so I was thinking the most clearly." He turns to us at the kitchen table after stirring the beans. "We settled down on a nice comfy spot next to a big cut-out in the rock and spent our time observing the sky.
"Dave, my friend, fell asleep, but I kept watching the stars. After some time, I began to notice this one particular star. I wasn't concentrating on it before, and I didn't then focus my attention on it. This star, it became very bright and started to move across the sky. When I began watching it, the star would quickly return to its spot in the sky and dim down."
Brian sits down the wooden spoon he was waving around while he spoke and took a seat himself in a bar stool. "I soon learned," he continues, "if I didn't watch this mysterious light, it would continue on its course. Slowly larger and larger, closer and closer," Brian is on the edge of his seat, "this light got to me until suddenly it overwhelmed my sight. I turned away from it, towards David, and I saw him shaking violently, as if having a seizure.
"Right then, I gained this powerful courage. I jumped up at the light and said, 'Representing the U.S. Army, I demand you to relinquish control of my friend and surrender yourself into my custody.'
"I didn't hear laughter, but I felt it," Brian tilts his head to try to think of how to describe what he means. "It was telepathic," he says after a moment's silence, "almost like I was laughing at myself. I looked over at David and noticed he not only stopped shaking, but has himself in prayer position, bent over up right and on his knees. Turning back to the light, it was bright but not blinding. I began conversing with the light; conversing in my mind.
"Hours passed and I was revealed the deepest questions that I could humanly think. Could I reiterate them to you, now? No. Do I know what was said? Yes. And I have lived with my new gained knowledge, I have lived and grown."
Brian pauses in his story and looks at me and my friend. We smile back politely but are unsure of what to say.
"A higher consciousness," Brian says as if no time has past. "To be conscious of me, others, and the world... Mother Earth!" Brian jumps, "Respect her and she will provide."
The beans begin to spill over. The water juice hisses on the hot stove. Brian gives us both a nod of head after looking in our eyes and slowly stands to walk over to the stove.
"They asked me to come with them," he says with his back to us, "and I politely denied. To further consciousness is what I decided to spend my days doing."
We eat dinner and smoke the pipe afterward. Without asking, Brian has cleared space in his woodshop for us to lay down our sleeping pads. My friend and I shrug our shoulders and load the pipe one more time for the night.

Waking up in Brian's woodshop felt just like waking up camping. My friend and I are both feeling well rested. We are in the middle of gathering up our things when Brian comes in with two cups of coffee. The pipe is loaded again and we rest in the branch chairs. Brian is busy telling us all the many places for us to explore in Arcata. I am anxious to get back on the road and my friend has to return to San Francisco to help host a solar-power workshop.
Brian is sad to see us go and we too are lonely for his quirky stories. He gives us both long hugs and offers his home to us any time we are in town.
There is a spot on the outskirts of town we scouted the day before that seems to be a spot where to hitch out of; there were three separate groups of travelers posting cardboard signs. The spot has a one-way road with a stop sign, and it leads to both North and South on-ramps to the 101.
I smoke a, "Until I see you again," spliff with John next to a bushy area on a side street. He leaves me at the highway on-ramp and waves to me as he drives off. Finding a piece of cardboard, I write, "Eugene." Only minutes with my sign posted, and a group of crusty punk travelers and their dogs walk up and ask how long I've been here.
"We'll give you your space," is their politeness towards me. After I turn down two rides because they aren't going far, do the punks begin to talk loudly amongst themselves. "Fucking guy better hurry up!" and "Douche!" I begin to hear.
A different crusty punk girl crosses the street and yells in my direction, "I've hitched out of here a dozen times and you gotta stand under the tree up on the on-ramp."
I take her advice and move from my stop sign stop to the one under the tree. Shortly, a wide construction truck with Oregon license plates rolls to a stop at the stop sign. I step out far onto the road and wave down the truck. It pulls up and stops for me to get in. I jump in the cab with a round of applause and cheers coming from the punk travelers.

The guy driving the truck is a nice middle aged man. He smokes me up and we even take the time to stop along the river and cool off. I am asked if I have a drivers license, which I do, and that question was followed by, "Do you mind driving?" which I don't.
The man continues to smoke me up all the way to Eugene. The truck is exciting to drive because it is so wide. This, also being my first time driving in close to a year, added to the excitement. I took the time to check and re-check my mirrors as I passed or changed lanes, and I was always conscious of my speed and driving under the limit.
"Huh..." I say outloud, to myself after I arrive in downtown Eugene and watched the construction truck drive off. Throwing the rucksack on my back and I'm off, wandering aimlessly, down a quiet street.
At the first crossroad is a new and used music store. One of its windows is littered with posters, music advertisements, and social networking. A poster caught my eye. It boasted, "Reggae on the Mountain."
"Well," I laugh, "I guess I know what I'm doing this weekend."

I didn't have to panhandle the first couple of days I was in town. The Dinning Room, a community outreach program, provided dinners four nights a week, the travel kids are friendly enough with their drink and weed, and we all told stories along the river and laughed well into the nights.
Thursday, the day before the festival, came and I found myself again along the side of the highway posting a cardboard sign. "Reggae on Mtn." is what it read.
A nice old man in a Mercedes gives me the short ride. He is happy to help me out and when I join his conversation about, "Maybe we're not really from this planet and are waiting to go home," (his words) does he want me to continue our talk. I politely listen but offer short responses to help kill the conversation. The man knows the fate and bids me farewell.
The property where the festival is being held is still another ten miles into the mountains. I pull my "reggae" sign back out.
Sitting down to roll a cigarette, before I lick it sealed, a car slows down and the man offers me a ride. On the ride up, he tells me he is volunteering and calls his friend to see if there is extra help needed. He hangs up the phone with a concerned smirk on his face.
"Ummm..." he hesitates, "My friend says I really can't bring you in, and I don't want to fuck me over."
"On, no!" I smile, "I understand."
He offers to leave me at the lower gate and I'm grateful for his help. There's a gray haired man sitting in a blue La-Z-Boy at the bend. There is no gate yet. I introduce myself and he offers me a smoke from his pipe. His Spanish looking girlfriend comes out of a trailer parked further down their property. She shouts something to the man and he waves back. The woman eventually comes up with a small jar of weed. We smoke some more and wave a few cars up the road to the festival.
The couple ask me to watch the corner while they head down to town to get beers.
"Just smile and point the way up the mountain," the man laughs to me.
I follow his instructions and get a couple of smiles from the few cute girls who drive by. Eventually the couple comes back and they share their beers and more smoke. They give me advice on how to get into the festival for free.
"Get on the volunteer list," they both agree.
A bearded man in a pick-up stops by and talks to the couple about getting ready to set up the gate. I ask him if I could get a ride up the mountain.
"Not in here," he laughs looking over at his messy passenger seat, "but you can ride in the back." The man introduces himself as Bear, head of security. In his bed, he is carrying an old rusted bed with two white mattresses. I hop on and wave to the couple as they truck jumps and bounds up the rocky road.
A whole mountain range is opened up to me as the truck bounces up the mountain. I have to hold onto a pole in the headbed to prevent falling off. Three, four mountain ranges stretch to the horizon in waves of lush greenery. I giggle to myself with joy at the awesome sight.
The surrounding trees begin to thin and we roll past some large fence posts promoting property boundaries. The truck bounds over a hill and stops. The man tells me this is where I should get off because he is going higher up. I jump off and ask where the volunteers should go. He points me down into the grove.
Finding the two main stages, I meet a pair of busy young adults, who, I find out, are in charge of volunteers. They, already overwhelmed with final preparations, are not excited to see me.
"Just go off and find a camp," the guy sincerely smiles, "and we'll find something for you."
Walking back up the grove to the campsites, I stop three times to share a smoke with somebody or help them set up their vendor's booth. I am passed a joint in one of these booths when the girl taps me on the shoulder.
"Hey," she smiles, putting a yellow volunteer shirt to my chest, "just have a good time," and she gives me a wink. I jump over to her, give her a big hug, lifting her off the ground, and hiss her cheek.

The events that took place at Tayberry Jam are so epic, it would be unfair to skim over them here. The end of this Cosmic Chapter will hold the illustrations.

I am walking back to the red Subaru sports wagon Monday morning after the festival where Chief is patently waiting for me to gather final contact information from some cosmic people. Chief is leaning against the front of his car smoking a pipe. Apologizing for making him wait, he shakes it off by handing me the pipe with a smile.
As I'm blowing out the smoke, I spot Sam, a glassblower who makes cosmic chandlers out of pirate glass and copper piping. He is lowering his piece from the tree that was hanging above the walkway toward the stages. I laugh and look over at Chief. He smiles again and nods his head.
Helping Sam carry a box of light coverings, and he gets called over by a guy camped in a VW van by a group of trees. I patiently wait as the two discuss installing lights in the van.
"You know," the guy smiles with a cup of coffee in his hand, "I'm just chilling, looking for riders to Reggae Rising next weekend."
I cough and clear my throat. "Mmmm..." I step up and smile. "I'll go to Reggae Rising."
"Yeah!?" the guy laughs and hits me on the shoulder. "Let's do it!" He hands me his business card and again slaps me on the shoulder. "Blessings," he laughs before he climbs back into his van.

COSMIC TRAVELING

Jay's Corn Ket
Blue
rd House

These are the directions Johnny Opium has found himself having after the scratchy phone call with the Big VossMan from a corner pay phone in Eugene. He is now in Cottage Grove, standing at Dave's Corner Market, wondering where the third blue house could be. Asking a kind stranger for fifty cents so he can use the pay phone, Johnny gets in contact with the VossMan, who laughs at him over the phone.
"Trust in Ja and he'll show you the way," is heard threw the phone.
Johnny hangs up and walks down the road, not left or right, but forward. Three houses down from the corner store and Johnny finds the blue house.

Upon receiving the phone call, the VossMan knew immediately that it was Johnny Opium. He took three steps back from his van and waited for Johnny to appear. He waved him in.
Johnny as right on time. The VossMan was almost finished getting ready to go, but final preparations were piled high.

The two give each other hugs; cosmic friends uniting for cosmic travels. Johnny throws down his rucksack and asks how he can help. He looks over to the open back of the van.
"Why don't you press on the break peddle," the VossMan suggests, "so I can check these new lights I just put in."
"Right now!?" Johnny grins.
"Yeah!" the VossMan laughs. "Now!"
Johnny goes up to the driver's side of the badge van and opens the door. He presses down on the peddle and asks if it worked. Nothing. Johnny is pressing on the gas. He realizes and corrects himself, laughing. The break lights work and the VossMan finds the next things to work on.

Another cosmic traveler remains for the cosmic travels to begin. A meeting set for the pub for Bread Club and the two cruise forward with everything in check. At the pub, the other traveler is still missing. The cosmos bless them with the local breadmaker's presence and the travelers give thanks.

Outside smoking rollies, Trevor, the missing traveler cruses by on his mountain bike. He has his bike equipped with long distance travel bags. The three, all looking at each other in a triangle, take deep breaths.
"Welp," they coin and head to the van parked around the corner. They unload Trevor's bike and throw it in the van. Off they officially were.

Trevor's cycling experience outlined their route as they cruised forward to Oregon's coast. The mood full of excitement, herbs were smoked readily to hold their meditation. The smoke billowed as strongly as the reggae riddims, and the comic universe prepared for the next chapters.

Ten miles from the festival in Northern California and they are slowly cruising down a mountain. But the next up climb, with the mid-day heat, has the van beginning to lurch. It does it more violently and scares the three travelers. They jump to a stop on the side of the highway. Not long and a police cruiser pulls up behind.
"Van broke down," the young offer laughs as if this is routine. "Get back in and I'll push you to the next exit."
They get in the van giggling. The cruiser gently comes up and pushes, topping thirty-five miles per hour. They find themselves rolling down the off-ramp. The officer wishes them luck at the bottom and heads off to inform the local tow company. Steeping out of the van, Johnny is stomping out his cigarette when he notices a rollie on the ground. It's super dry and stiff. Johnny empties a little of the cigarette onto his hand.
"It's weed!" he laughs to the others.
They smoke the joint with some beers under a tree. Coming back to the van, they try it again and it starts! The three cosmic travelers whoop and holla the rest of the way to the festival.

The van is home for the three travelers while at the festival. All are off on their own manifestations. Everyone lives well, and the strength from the music provides for a fresh experience.

On a cosmic hunt to sneak in the first day, Johnny finds an abounded neon yellow shirt found along the river. The color is similar to that of the festival wristbands. He ties a thin strap around his wrist and walks past security by simply flashing it at them.
"Confidence kills," Johnny laughs to himself.
Inside, thousands of people conjure to listen to the epic music. Luciano, Prezident Brown, Capleton.
Fellow cosmic travelers are met and re-met. "This mother fucker!" and "Hey pretty lady!" are said.
The three day festival can be overwhelming with fourteen thousand people. The second biggest reggae fest in the world. The travelers are worn out from too much fun, but next weekend is North/West World Reggae Festival back in Oregon.
Goodbye Northern California. Or more like, "Until again." The cosmic travelers love and support you.

On their way out, the van required a push start to get going but it decided not to comply. They are to remain on the farm for a little while longer, so they smoke the time away. The van does start after an hours rest in the shade.

The travelers pick up a hitchhiker on their way out. He is heading to Ashland and they are happy to help. The extra weight does the van bad, however. They break down in Arcata, at a gas station closer to Eureka, actually. The hitchhiker carries on and the remaining travelers camp up for the night, deciding to worry about it in the morning.

The morning is blessed, a trusty mechanic is found and a tow is arranged. Once the van is checked in, the travelers decided to cruise the town a bit. They soon found the local farmers market. The roots, are the source of all things, so the travelers looked no further. Money is manifested to fix the van as well as enough to obtain the super nutrition for the journey that lay ahead.

Trevor is off eating Camilla leaves, the VossMan is playing with Justix in the square, and Johnny is browsing around a second-hand bookstore. It is here where Johnny makes another cosmic connection. A young woman, her blond hair in a bun and studious glasses hiding gray eyes, climbs the stairs toward the fiction section of the store. She is asking the worker something, "naked," is all Johnny hears.
"Naked Lunch?" Johnny pops up from behind a bookcase. "Burroughs?" he asks the startled woman.
"Oh, no..." she laughs. "I'm looking for a poetry book."
Conversation about favorite books and authors (hers, Anna Karena and Joyce; his, all Tom Robbins) slowly turns into Johnny talking about his book, TRAVELING BEARD "Where My Mustache Took Me", and the current project he is collaborating with, COSMIC TRAVELERS.
"I must say," the woman smiles, "you are quite the inspiration."
"It's me being selfish," Johnny admits. "The same is true with me and reading. I do it for my sake only."
The two have found themselves outside the bookstore. They smile at each other awkwardly. The woman asks if he would like a cup of coffee but Johnny must refuse, "to check on the van," he frowns. They say their goodbyes and hug.
Johnny crosses the street and finds a bench to roll a quick cigarette. He lights it and stands. The woman runs up to him. This time she is not wearing glasses, her eyes dark blue with rays of yellow, but her golden hair is still in a bun. Johnny, surprised, gives her a silly grin and says, "Hello... again."
"I wanted to give you this," she says softly, catching her breath.
It is a small book. The Alchemist.
"Something for you to read and pass along."
"I like that!" Johnny laughs. "I like that a lot."
They hug one more time and head in their opposite directions, both feeling high on the cosmos.

Once the van is ready, the travelers visit the beach to collect sand-dollars and smoke a joint during the sunset. Ises are crucial. The journey home continues at dark. After an hour or so of driving, they decide to sleep for the night after a tough hill climb. The VossMan raises up his bed in the van, and Johnny rolls out on the pavement, while Trevor seeks solace in the forest across the road. After a full night's rest, the VossMan is the first to rise. While the others are still resting, he begins to start the van.
The previous night, each of the travelers found themselves putting some thought into their resting places. The following events gave meaning to each selected site. Although there is meaning to their resting places every night the truth is written boldly, upon this morning.

Puuffffftttttt
Puuuuffffffftttttttt
Puuuuffffffftttttttt-ttttt
The van tries its hardest to start. The noise awakens Johnny who is sleeping on his side next to the van. With another Puffttt, Johnny notices something dripping underneath the van. He sleepishly shouts up at the VossMan,
"Hey! Something's leaking down here!!"
The VossMan jumps out of the car, bends over, under the van, and finds the leak. He sticks his hand out and brings it back to him.
"It's gas!" he laughs seriously.
Johnny gets up and rolls up his sleeping pad and blanket, throwing it in the van.
"Fuck it!!" they laugh and the two jump back in the front seats.

Since they are far from any towns, in the redwoods, the gas seems insignificant at the time. The van starts and the VossMan is able to keep it running. As he pumps the pedal, he looks over his left shoulder to see Trevor running across the road, arms waving, and yelling, "FIRE!!" The VossMan jumps out and sees the fire. No one really said much over the next minute. There was fire on the pavement and in the compartment. The VossMan pops the gear to roll the van away from the flaming pavement. He then busts open the back door, throwing every one's stuff out in record time. He opens the engine compartment and the flames immediately rise, causing the VossMan to step back, in awe, humbled by the fast climbing flames, helpless.

A loud hiss and a whoosh of steam blanket the fire. They all are standing back as Johnny drops the empty plastic drinking-water bucket. Their shock keeps them silent, them all in their own wonder. No words are said as reggae music comes on the speakers and a bowl is passed around. A trucker stops at the turn-off to check on the dancing hippies next to a half burned VW van. An hour passes but nothing has changed. More bowls are smoked and the reggae never stopped. A tow truck comes and takes them the thirty miles to Crescent City.
Not wanting to leave anybody behind, and that includes the van, the three get turned on to the idea of renting a U-Haul with a trailer. The cheapest truck is a two seater. One traveler in the back storage. Johnny and Trevor switch off because it is hot and the air is stale. There is a light for reading, however.
It was dark by the time they got to the blue house. Now it's only Johnny Opium and The Big VossMan. Trevor was dropped off on the mountain near-by. Three days it took to get from Humboldt County to the Eugene area; just in time for a day's rest before get moving for the North/West World Reggae Festival.

+++

She danced a bounce across the small grassy path, her shoulder length dark-brown curls lively dancing themselves as she came up to him, intising him to leave his small dancing spot at the side of the stage by taking his hand and leading him to the vacant center patch in front of a humble wooden stage just big enough to hold the five man bluegrass band where she continues to lead in the dance twirling him and having him twirl her only to join together in time for him to step on her toes she giving a small cry and them doing another sequenced twirl before breaking off in a bounced dance to their original sides of the patch, the band still wailing, the mandolin players wailing! and he gets lost in it, him, standing there, mesmerized with joy and playful vibrations.
"That there be the girl who's blood be on Go-Paul's get-tar!" the VossMan shouts a laugh at Johnny.
"Oh shit!" Johnny says to himself outloud, knowing the story:
Eighteen ounce beer cans of Olympia are scattered around the cozy outdoor room like little sheep grazing the hills of a Soggy Bottoms pasture. A handful of people, the shepherds, are keeping an eye on them, making sure they all get well and drunk. Go-Paul is smiling over his black guitar while three bongos, two washboards, a croaking frog, and a jaw harp have found themselves amongst the rest of the party-goers. Laughter finishes off another ol' time country song and a pipe is going around in-between songs. Go-Paul takes the opportunity to tell Johnny, who is standing nearby with a bass drum, a story while also addressing it to everybody.
"You see this on the steal plate of the guitar; behind the strings?" Go-Paul smiles to Johnny, holding up the guitar. Johnny leans over to inspect the shinny chrome on the body. There are a few dry specks of something on the area behind the strings.
"Yeah..." Johnny says wirily.
"I was down in Grants Pass," Go-Paul continues, bringing back the guitar and strumming it a few times before accepting the passed pipe. He inhales deeply, coughs, and passes Johnny the pipe, smoke coming out of his mouth when he talks, "hanging out with this beautiful girl! Tall!! Ooooh... We went to an after party for one of the Conjugal shows."
"That one a couple days ago?" the mustache man with a washboard asks, growing in interest.
"Yep!" Go-Paul laughs, reminiscing shortly. "Well, we were at this party all night, well past sun-up. And I swear, this girl never stopped playing my guitar. Not once. Maybe for a drink, but not much else. She played it all night, so long she wore her thumb down... to the bone!" Go-Paul holds up his right thumb for effect. "To the bone I tells ya!!" he chuckles. "Bleeding on my guitar..." and he trails off while tuning the guitar.
"Some crazy voo-doo shit," Johnny smirks.
"Right!" Go-Paul laughs. "In fact, I wrote a song about it." He does a couple quick strumming and the rest of the group, the backyard band, joins in laughing.

Standing there, head and shoulders thrusted back, Johnny's silly grin slowly grows along with the rhythm of the Conjugal Visitors. Brian, the bassist, with his bon-bon bon-bon, followed by Papa Soul's washboard scratching, chee-che chee-che chee-che chee-che, and coming in quick with the mandolin is Jessie, bee-dee-de-dee-dee, with Go-Paul's rhythm guitar behind, do do-do do-do do do. The build up is huge, and when Chip's violin is thrown in, vee-ve-ve-ve-ve, the energy explodes into the sky and they all sing, "Light me up a funny cigarette..."
Johnny throws his hands into the air and twirls around, looking up with his eyes closed, the music taking hold of his body and he does a funky jig. Opening his eyes, Johnny sees the tall girl with the curls crossing the grassy patch again towards him.
"Oh no!..." Johnny shies away, bouncing to the side corner. She follows him in a seductive strut, her arms reaching out for him. "You stay away, voo-doo woman!" Johnny laughs, bouncing away from her, her laughing at him, saying under her breath, "voo-doo woman..."

The girls love hot days and cool nights. There was a full moon nights ago and they made love to it right there in Dixie's backyard. Johnny can account to that, "they waz giggling and laughing like mountain girls in a mud bath," for he was right there listening over a campfire, smoking his DMT. He saw god that night in the ambers and he knew she was love, so she smiled, "Salutations!" and left him gawking over the dancing dark-red ambers. The girls shook and giggled, awakening him in invitation to join them in dance, while the ambers may sit down at their tables and watch.
And last night too, again the moon was big and bright, encouraging the girls to frolic. But Johnny also heard another noise. It was a rustling down by the river. "Mugwumps," Johnny hoped is what it was, for he did not know what mugwumps were, but he did know their intention was not to steal the girls. He stood there, tall and bright, towering over yet another night's fire, peering into the darkness, with the girls safe behind him, for these are the trials and tribulations of the backyard watchman.

"In Ja I put my trust," the VossMan begins thinking his prayer. "I trust in the cosmos to provide me with the courage to accomplish what I am about to endure. Thank you for this life and this opportunity."
An hour after sun set, it is dark enough out. He takes a deep sigh and turns to face Johnny and some girl watching in the outdoor room. Johnny hits the play button on the stereo, Teach Dem - Lionheart Sounds, while the VossMan lights the ends of his Justix aka Devil Sticks. Poi can be dangerous if not taken seriously. His form is one stick three feet long (its ends on fire) and using slightly smaller sticks, one in each hand, to keep the fire stick spinning in the air. The fiberglass sticks are wrapped in rubber electrical tape, its ends, a fire-retardant cloth. How it comes together only the VossMan knows for he is the maker of the very fire sticks he's spinning right now. This is what he does, festival hop Justix.
Even the reggae music, with these thoughts, seem distant, the fire swooshing in a tight circle, white in color, spinning quickly, the VossMan controlling with only one handstick. He throws it into the air, high, and catches it with his other handstick. His shadow creating huge and orange against the house is stuck on shifting left with the fire, then right when he changes rotation, the shadow still a repetition. He controls the stick behind his back and flips it over to his front, spinning it parallel with his body, threatening to singe off his beard. He tosses it back into the air and catches it again with one handstick, spinning it in tight circles, now over his head like a helicopter.
The two person audience laughs, claps, and cheers in amazement. The white flames turning blue and smaller. A quick whipping spin with his left handstick puts the flames out. The two clap louder.
The VossMan bows to them, still excited, still edgy, from the blessing of a successful performance. He sets down his sticks on the concrete and comes over to the outdoor room to sit and rest. Johnny has a loaded bowl ready for him when he opens his eyes from a heavy sigh in the whiskey barrel chair.
"Blessings," he smiles, accepting the pipe. "Blessings."

Herbs are Ital. Sustainable farms are Ital. Love is Ital. Consciousness is Ital.
Alcohol is not Ital. Manufactured cigarettes are not Ital. Hate is not Ital. And self-treated ignorance is not Ital.

The Thursday farmer's market in Eugene was slow today, but it's always slow on Thursdays, Michael thinks to himself at a stop light, his heavy hands on the steering wheel; at ten and two. Slow, just the way he likes it. The tomatoes all were so bright and red, plump and tempting to burst with joyful juices. He got to take his time testing the selection, weighing them in his hand, giving them a slight squeeze, deciding upon only those that giggled when he played with them. Four big ones satisfied him and he brought them on his walk around the city center park. He found a shady bench to rest and ate the plumpest tomato just like an apple. Its juices squirted violently with the first bite and Michael had to lean over to not get any on his sportscoat or slacks, the juices dripping from his hand all until the final bite. He pulls some napkins from his coat pocket and cleans himself while thinking how much better vegetables taste the closer home they are grown.
The juices are still on his taste buds as Michael is waiting at the stop light. He looks over at the white tomato bag in the passenger seat and thinks to make a salad when he gets back to Cottage Grove. "I still have those walnuts at home!" he says outloud excitedly.
The light changes green and he accelerates, slowly, in no hurry. Michael is approaching the I-5 turn-on and signals his right blinker, indicating he is going South. There are no cars behind him. The turn-on is wide and extends long before reaching the interstate. There is a young man, bearded, standing on the side of the road with a cardboard sign reading, "Reggae on Mtn." The man has a backpack at his feet, Michael notices, and understands he is a traveler. Michael eases his old Mercedes off the road not far down from the hitchhiker. "But he doesn't see me!" Michael laughs, honking his horn. The man turns around quickly, excited and surprised to see the car. He gathers his things and runs up to him. "Crazy bastard," Michael laughs again as he watches the man in the rearview mirror.

"Alright, you can have this wristband if you promise not to write anything about me," Crazy Girl insists, handing the orange festival wristband over her shoulder while driving the four door passenger car. She is in mid-conversation on her cell-phone, changing songs on the i-pod, and accelerating to get on the freeway. They pass a hitchhiker, "If only we had room," she muses.
Johnny, in the back seat crammed with camping supplies, doesn't know if it's he who is being spoken to, or what, but he sees the wristband and takes it from the girl. The reggae music, drum and bass, is loud over the speakers. The VossMan turns around in the passenger seat and nods his head to Johnny, to confirm the understanding.
"Oh, yeah..." Johnny puckers his lips and furrows his brow, nodding back at the VossMan, and Crazy Girl looking in the rearview.
"Alright," she is satisfied and accelerates more, speeding up and then quicker than the freeway traffic.
"Write it all down," her mother would say later in her backyard where they will be shepherds for a flock of Olympia beer cans.

Hearing the girl's laughter inside the house makes Johnny quietly laugh outloud. He is still jittery from having read the previous story, a story he wrote only the day before, to the girl, Crazy Girl, and her friend while they were eating breakfast, pan-fried vegetables and eggs, in the kitchen where Johnny posed, shirtless, chest hair a'flexing, and in sagging jeans and black boxerbriefs, dramatically reading outloud, with character and humor, while they listened with smiles.
What sparked it? They've been off for two weeks at a party in the desert. Burning Man. And have only been back for a day... or two. Maybe her return consequently brought the inspiration for Johnny to write a story about her, and maybe it's her presence that's drawing him to write about her now. It's simply called... the cosmos.
The back gate creaks open and Johnny gets done writing, "Crazy Girl," above. She comes over to the outdoor room, a greenhouse during the winter, but now it's where Johnny rolls out his sleeping bag at night. The room is pretty much a party room, with two open walls, the only real one is the side of the garage, its unfinished wooden paneling, original paneling Crazy Girl saved from the house before its renovation. Simple concrete blocks make up the floor and the roof is heavy clear plastic, being a greenhouse, but four large streams of fabric, red yellow green and black, somewhat block out the sun. Two whiskey barrel chairs and a square table makes it a fine living space. The bar counter, a long polished piece of wood, along an open wall was a gift to the house from Cougar Mountain, that and the matching bench on the shady back of the garage where the lazy river can be gazed upon.
The outdoor room was constructed, "Probably right before you got here, Johnny," Banjo Joe said where Johnny followed with loud barking laughter.
On the bar is where Johnny has made his writing space, temporarily, of course, and only during writing, because people come over and party all the time. Some people don't leave. It's easy to move in with this love, this powerful welcomness, this hippy house vibrates. "It wants to be a hostel soo bad," Dixie smiles and giggles every so often.
Crazy Girl comes over to the outdoor room, Johnny pretending to be writing on the bar, and she looking for something, her tobacco, she left out here last night.
"Can she read 'Crazy Girl' on my loose leaf paper?" Johnny wonders. "Don't be paranoid," he continues to think, she off by the table. "She probably can't even read your handwriting." "Yeah..." "Then again, it is the last thing you wrote." "Yeah?..." "But she'll have to come over to you and look over your shoulder." "Yeah..." "You did just get done reading her that story." "Yeah!..." "And if she did come over here." "Yeah!" "She'd probably see what you wrote." "Yeah!?..." "And then... who knows! You could come off as a romantic lover poet." "Yeah!!" "Or as a fucking weirdo jotting down peeping notes." "Yeah..."
Johnny turns from the bar, clears his throat, and says, "The CD player seems to be on the fritz."
"Yeah..." Crazy Girl agrees with her back to him. "It's kinda old."
"I'll make sure to take a look at it for ya..."
"OK then," she turns from the table without looking at him and leaves.
"Alright," Johnny staggers and stops, holding his pen in his right hand and pointing it after her, and says, "Alrighty, then."

Smooth and rhythmatic swaying of her hips, rotating casually counter-clockwise, her twirling with them, eyes closed, red hair a vibrant tornado, the fortunate hulla-hoop spinning around her waist, lightly caressing her for a split second and spun off with lustful thoughts. She magically throws the hoop up over her shoulders, her head, twirling it in the air with one arm, then the other, a silly smile supporting rosie cheeks. Her face turns serious, smile stern, cheeks still rosie, she hooks the hoop down on her right side and jumps through it, bringing it spinning to her left, a quick smirk, and she jumps through it again, this time staying in the middle, lightly bouncing it off her hip, drawing it back up to her chest, she knocking it off access and doing an inverted backwards cartwheel, landing on her feet and the hulla-hoop, joyful laughing, spinning a hover around her waist.
"Festival Cowgirl," Johnny thinks outloud, not trying to hide his wide grin. First night festival, the sun has set behind the mountain horizon, the clear sky still a light blue. Prezident Brown is playing later. Bazil Rathbone is now celebrating their earlier performance and Johnny is joining them in their Ninkasi Brewery sponsorship.
After much smoking and cosmic introductions with fellow festival volunteers and vendors the day before, Johnny finally stumbled up to the first camp area, "Next to the Dance Dome," many people warned but Johnny knew that's where to camp. Rucksack and all, Johnny's trucking up a small grassy hill, towards the trees and past the muddy pond, the beginnings of a "dome" were being constructed off in a little cove, while a large blue outdoor camp shade was set up off by some trees. Johnny stops and looks at both, one one-way the other the other. Someone in the tent signaled him by holding up a lit joint, the smoke milky in signal.
"Have a beer," they said before he had a hold of the joint. He tossed his rucksack into the trees. With no sleeping bag or tent, he finished setting camp.

Apples, cherries, strawberries, blackberries, tayberries. Abundance. Everywhere. They've been eating them all weekend. They've been eating them for years. Sustainability.
Johnny picks a large berry, the size of a small pine cone, its dark purple ripeness smiling in the big green vine patch. There are hundreds, thousands. And more still a light pink, and even more green.
The little kids have gotten all the lower ones, but that just means the higher ones have been given time to get all huge. Johnny reaches high, stretching and leaning into the vines, barely able to grab a high berry with his three middle fingers.
He tosses it in his mouth, letting it fly through the air, becoming negligent from picking so many. It is caught, bursts and quirts inside his mouth and only from the pressure of the tongue. He smiles a satisfied smile and nods his head. A deep sigh of relief and he climbs the shallow embankment. Chief, standing on the dirt path, smoking his pipe, didn't try any of the tayberries, no matter how hard Johnny tried to persuade him. "Oh man, the juiciness," Johnny would exaggerate, acting faint from pleasure, only to lead to Chief to puff on his cherry. Well, at least he's doing something fruity and Johnny returned to find the next, "sluperfome," berry.
Full on berries. Lightheaded from berries? Or from that little amount of exercise to get back on the path?...
"Let me hit that pipe," Johnny smiles to Chief.
He digs a nug out of his jar. "Smoke your own pipe," Chief hands it to Johnny. Bowing before accepting the weed, Johnny is thankful and takes out his hash pipe.
They are walking and smoking, heading back to the stages. It's morning. The sun is up high but it's still a chill in the air. Forewarnings of a sustainable lecture can be heard over the speakers in the distance. The reggae DJ puts on another record, strange how the mellow bass has become a natural background sound.
Johnny branches off towards the vendors and food carts while Chief goes on ahead to listen in.
The traveling gypsies with the gray school bus have been most kind many times throughout the festival to allow Johnny to come over and help at their food booth. Cutting vegetables, taking orders from customers, would be fun, Johnny thinks half an hour into washing pots and pans.
There is a long table with three tubs of water (one on the right, soapy for scrubbing, the middle just soapy, and the left tub is regular water for rinsing) and the dirty dishes piled on the right with drying/clean on the left before put back, "Anywhere you think," Jeff suggests too busy with taking orders. Johnny mischievously scatters them on the cookware shelf. No harm done, just personal fun, boredom, and anxiety.
Soon enough another hungry chap would come along and ask, "Your sign reads, 'Work for Food'?"
"For sure man," Jeff would smile, him all tall and slender, his dreadlocks heavy on his back, and lead the guy to the back where the dish washing is done.
"Johnny can show you," Jeff smiles again and hurries back to the front.
Talking with the gypsy folk in the back while he eats his falafel is always a good time. They make Johnny laugh excitedly with stories of hopping trains and camping in the desert. A second helping is offered and Johnny laughs some more.
While Johnny is filling his belly, Chief is filling his mind.
"It's easy to throw these words around in conversation or in a mailed letter, but to execute them into action... now that's a beautiful thing!"
Chief arrived shortly after the introduction, only a handful or so of people are sitting under the canopy in front of the North stage, the young and old are listening to a sturdy man in a black "Cougar Mountain" tank top, on the wooden stage. Small children are running and playing in the sun before the speaker, he strutting like Mick Jagger.
"Sustainability. Permaculture. Recycle. Reuse. What do these words mean to you?" He does a short hip thrust and stops mid-stage, observing those in the shade and the kids below. Strutting again, "Gardening. Compost. Co-Living. Co-Housing." He stops at the side of the stage. "Organic," he says and steps down on the dirt with kids running by. A small little girl of age five, in a blue/purple summer dress, carefully walks up to him with dandelions in her hands.
"I say these words for you and me. But I act upon them," he bends down to the girl and accepts a flower, saying thank you and a smile, sending her to play with the others. "I act upon them for the next generation," he turns and steps back on stage.
"I act upon them out of respect and love for the youth and their families. Out of respect and love of nature. Nature. There's another word. How do we work with nature to make life better and healthier for all?
"Consciousness. Awareness. Action. All words in conversation and in mailed letters. But when I see you people here, I know it's not only me who believes they can be more than mere words."
The speaker carries on as Chief finds his nug jar to refill his pipe, focusing on this and not listening more on the lecture. A couple puffs and he drifts (in or out?) of thought. He does overhear the young couple next to him say, "That there talker be the owner of dis here mountain." Chief takes another puff and wonders a thought into the mountain horizon.
During the day, this view is spectacular. Cougar Mountain is a sustainable farm on top of a mountain around Saganaw, Oregon, on top of a mountain viewing four strong mountain ranges towards the coast, each range a more foggy blue mystic than the lush dark green forest before it, only the mountain ranges don't end, limited eyesight levels the horizon.
At night, it's cosmic. Heavy darkness everywhere (when not during festival) yet the sky is still filled with as many lights as John Lennon's funeral candle vigil. So thick and clustered with little while lights in the sky, it has a milky character, especially in its narrow path stretching across the sky from East to West. All in this cluster of lights, cosmic space dust reflecting it an infinite ways, vibrating, pulsing, this giant star cluster in the sky together looks purple mist, white blue.
"Green?" Johnny thinks. "Or do I smell green...?"
He looks down from the sky and sees Special Brownie Sarah gazing at the stars with him, only she has a lit joint.
"The Milky Way," she smiles and hands him the joint.

Everything is alive and flowering fruits of wisdom. The hump of summer has everything green, the clear skies bringing on the sun and its heat, challenging the garden to enjoy every opportunity light, which they do with style. The squashes are producing everyday while the potatoes, tomatoes, onions and garlic are coming on strong, with the peppers, sweet and spicy, and greens greens greens. A plum tree, oooh, the eggshaped purple fruit, a soft skin and a bright yellow juicy inside with a flat pit. Swing around the bottom of that tree and pluck four of five of them. Or hop over to the pear bush, "We thought years ago it was a dead stump," Dixie told the story, "and now it's producing pears!" The apple tree will offer one of hers without a request, dropping apples day and night. The birds and squirrels also seem to be the culprits, same with the nut tree and the blackberries and grapes.
A thirty-first birthday party drew more than a few young kids and dogs, them spent most the afternoon scavengering the garden and exploring the creek.
Dixie laughs over her cigarette not only at what Nichole is saying, she has found herself pondering over her garden when her gaze came upon the silly young man, slightly tall he is when not bounding along the creek with the dogs and kids, this, how he's abandoned the kids at the edge of the yard to run off with all four of the dogs into the neighboring field, is what made Dixie laugh to herself just now.
"I hear he's writing a book," Nichole answers Ana's silent question, the three ladies now watching him in the distance holding something up and only occasionally would a dog's head pop above the waist high vegetation. He throws it and the grass in front of him breaks and falls over as the dogs chase off. The man chases after them and stops shortly before making a small attempted retreat when Donnie, the big black dog, playfully tackles him. The women laugh with each other when the man fell behind the grass.
Noa, Ana's husband, comes up to the ladies, curious about their laughter. Ana tries to explain but the man is still under the grass when Noa gazes the field and sees nothing. The couple walks off, hand-in-hand.
"I hope he's alright," Nichole says to Dixie. "Still not seeing him and all..."
"I'm sure he's fine," Dixie replies yet wondering the same thing. "When I first met him the other week, he had this huge beard," Dixie laughs, lightening the tone of conversation, "and just yesterday he comes back from Eugene clean shaven!"
"Oh yeah!? The smile on that boy! It'd be a shame to hide it behind a beard."
"'Did it for a girl,' he says."
"I wonder what else he does for women..." they giggle childishly when a little blond boy runs up to Nichole, telling her in mid-thought, "The cool guy ran off with the dogs."
"He'll be back," she reassures the boy and looks out to the field to see the man running into the distance, the high grass breaking and falling all around him.

A caress, a touch from
something
anything as long as it's
real to me, to us, you
to be with me and
no where now here
a kiss desired left open
to pursue a release of trust,
a willing, we both share.

She looks away from her notebook, down at him lying on her bed propped up on one elbow listening attentively to her poem readings, he, only in tight jeans and his chest hair a jungle of fur, she, standing at the foot in yoga tights. She throws her thick red hair off her bare shoulders and with notebook in hand, she moves onto the bed standing on her knees swaying on close to the far middle, stopping her body straight, shoulders back, chest out. He sits up attentively, crosslegging, and turning towards her, his shoulders back, watching her face.
Her rosie cheeks, though bright and full of wonder, are no match for the fire surrounding it. The dark natural color, the red more a strawberry, but a hint of blue, subtle licks of fire flares if she were running or when she throws her hair over her shoulders like just now.
Johnny thinks he's conscious of it, thinks he just saw the blue flame, her sweet rustic voice starts another poem.

Beach lust logs alotta love
Driftwood thinks its been knowing what its smoken'
A cliff as high as what you got in your pants
So take it out, measure up!

Forest comes a crying call
Ferns pass you a little sumtan they been sellin'
Redwoods fallen in the valley, limp and dreaming of erecting
So take it out, measure up!

Desert pleasure pondering picking
A rock lies dead in the gutter with a bottle in his hand
It's only you and I
So take it out, measure up!

Johnny straightens up on his knees, she is still looking down at her notebook, silent, her white eyelids covering her eyes. She is nervous and anxious, trembling slightly, her breath short. His body heat is warm and musky on her senses, her's sweet on his. He pushes the notebook aside, she throws her eyes up at him in fright, in want to be controlled. His eyes have a mystic aura, gold around the pupil, and it frightens her even more.
"A cigarette, I need..." she is barely able to speak and pulls herself off the bed, feeling lightheaded standing there.
"Wait!" he calls to her, reaching out an arm. "Let me kiss you," he looks into her eyes, she turning to him slightly.
"No..." she says and breaks to the door. She glances back at him standing on his knees on her bed looking back at her.
"Cosmic," she mutters and leaves.

The aroma is sweet in the air, especially during the hottest parts of the day and the coldest parts at night. Turns out, the coldest parts at night are around five o'clock in the morning. It's still pretty stinky when Johnny scurries out of his sleeping back around seven-thirty and takes a morning piss in the bushes. "Morning wood keeps knocking me in the chin!" he greets the garden the same way he's greeted them for the past three weeks. The apple tree and grape vines thought it odd at first, but as the weeks wore on they began to appreciate the human's admirance of wooden specimens to name a part of their bodies after them. "And what a fine part this young man has," the blackberries giggle this morning, following the other's excitement.
"You wish, Lucias," Johnny laughs, shakes, and jumps back into his sleeping bag to snuggle himself slowly awake. The girls are queefing up a storm and Johnny decides only after a little bit to slip into the house and put the water on the boil before visiting the toilet.
A cup of warm tea in his hand and bundled with smoking jacket and scarf, Johnny is back in the garden with a joint of last years leaves, pondering the morning's writings with the girls.
Ppppppttss, one of them lets out a funk bomb. Gehehehe, they all giggle together as another, pppptttttsssss.
Blueberry is the tallest. A good ten feet she is and probably the smelliest of the bunch. Her buds aren't huge but they are consecutive through over. Trainwreck probably comes in next, just under six feet, another beautiful plant, bushy with lots of buds, and Aron Haze would follow, this girl has more picturesque colas with the fatty ass nugs and the leaves exploding off. SOS (Southern Oregon Skunk) is also like that, stretching out with her huge stalky arms. Mystery Bud, the first to bud, is a combination of bushy and stalky. And, of course, Bubba Kush. A short fat plant that was dense with thick leaves before it got pruned.
All these girls are grown legal under medical marijuana. All six of them, each with their own vibrant green, woooo, and the potent sweet smell, the buds, thick with white hairs, some with a purple stripe (SOS), and when ready for harvest those hairs have slowly dried into the characteristic red hairs, leaving fine white crystals on the five branch leaves, the largerst turn yellow and fall off.
Six plants is not a lot, but six plants will provide Dixie enough smoke to last her until next year's harvest, six plants, not much to worry about, but six plants is enough to raise some eyebrows, not from the officials, this shit be legit, but from the yokels who try to swoop in on payday. This is where a man is needed. (It can be a woman too, anything a man does a woman can do as well, yet Steinbeck also wrote: "The only thing a man can do better than a woman is grow a beard. And if she can grow a beard then she belongs in the circus.) This time it's a man. This time it's a cosmic man. This time it's Johnny Opium! Yes!! Hum... It is he!!! Johnny Opium who has been selected, neh, chosen? neh, believed! yes, believed in the cosmos to guide him in the wonders of life's journey. And it has led him here, in Dixie's backyard, playing the role as watchman, playing the role as writer, until harvest time two weeks.
Where will he go next? Only time will tell. How will he get there? I wrote only time will tell!! Will he have some of that homegrown with him?? Haha, fo sho, fo sho.
Pppppttttttssssss.

"As introduction parties go, this one's the pun-tang!" Johnny thinks in complete wonder. "A fat ass pink one!!" he shouts outloud, surrounded by thousands of people at the Prezident Brown show, nobody cares to hear him, he's too close to the front, plus he's roaming by himself. Quickly he remembers his first day in Rotterdam, Netherlands compared to here in Oregon.
After traveling Europe for a year and living in Amsterdam for half that time, he always heard Rotterdam, although a worker's city, it had strong competition in the party scene. So check it out Johnny did and the day he arrived the city was hosting a "Fit for Free" dance parade. He got some smoke at the coffee shop and joined the thousands who packed the streets to listen to DJs and techno. How they did it was set up twenty or so semi-trucks with open trailers, where DJ, huge speakers, VIP, and hot ass chicks were dancing. The crowd would dance and follow any one of the trucks as it creped its six hour figure eight course through the city. At the end of the parade, a couple trucks parked around city center and people danced all night, well into sun up.
Respect Rotterdam! Much love Amsterdam!! Netherlands! Fuck Yeah!! Europe. America. The World!!! Give time, there's still mucha cosmic traveling to be done.
Right now Johnny has found himself a nice spot in the crowd with plenty of room for dancing, for dancing with this cute brunette right here... he does a little move towards her, she turns and smiles and follows his rhythmatic swaying with the music. Reggae Dub. So sexy. So much love.
He gets tapped on his shoulder and the milky smoke billows across his face. Turning to accept the joint, he smiles at the girl, takes a puff, passes it to the brunette, she puffs, and passes it back to the girl. So many joints always going around. Smoking all the time. Mornings. Day. And Night. No cigarette. Just Herb. Herb is an abundance in North/West America. The most economically wise product in America summer 2009. And the best bud in the world. Colorado raised Johnny right, and the Dutch know how to get down, but Johnny would soon find out how beautiful it can be in Dixie's backyard.
Johnny doesn't know about that yet, fuck, time is all out of wack. Once the weeks of festival hopping slow down, everything is a blur, but he did hangout with a lot of funky characters, characters with long gray beards, characters in hemp robes, cloth pants, and no shoes, characters with crazy ass wizard hats or top hats, purple or orange sunglasses, and those robes, man, that is that characteristic thing about characters, they have these long robes wrapped around themselves, and they let them drag on the ground, robes like kings wear. Their stride or even their stance is cosmic. They don't visit the stars, they live in them. These funky, hairy, robey, cosmic characters are characters, when seen, one thinks, "Now that's a ganja grower."
They come out at night, at the epic shows of the festival, or by this part of the day one is so fucking high they've been there the whole time but finally the doors of perception have been opened to see them, only thinking them as wizards or trolls is stepping pretty far through those doors. Then again, in his purple robe, long straight hair, and fatty ass beard, holding up a dried cola of ganja! holding it in the air out of approval of the music, when seeing characters like this, in the mountains stretching from Eugene down to Humboldt County, it can be figured these festivals are huge pot parties the ganja growers throw for everyone to have a good time.

An old printer is pulled out of storage, plugs right into the house computer, and BAM! a printshop is born. A day typing Johnny's handwritten story and an afternoon colloguing a new cover and DOUBLE BAM!! the next edition of COSMIC TRAVELERS is done.
This original will be left at the house as a gift of appreciation, the first copy to the Big VossMan for contributing and in encouragement to continue cosmic writing and collaborating with fellow cosmic characters, and Johnny's first copy he has in his green carrier bag sitting next to him on the 98 bus heading to Eugene. A Belva Plain is what he's reading, a garden sandwich and vegetable chips from the Kiva are what's on his mind.
He gets them both and even an IPA. A smoke of some homegrown along the walk up to her house, a pleasant stroll, quiet streets, and tall Douglas furs. The houses have an early century feel, wide roofs and porches, all made of solid wood. At least this is what her house looks like. When the hot days of summer were around, there used to be a large kiddy pool on the front lawn with a sign posted, "Beware of Waterballoons." A large circle of yellow dried grass marks its spot. A couch surrounded by a bug canopy is now present, but up by the house. The sign is still posted.
The door is closed, a rare time when someone isn't lingering on the stoop smoking or listen to music. He knocks but gets no reply. "Just as well," he thinks, pulling out his COSMIC TRAVELERS and a loose leaf paper to write a note, and slips them under the door.
"Do you know anything about this?" Meghan asks Cerrissa, handing out a booklet of papers with a paper note around it. Cerrissa spins quickly from the counter, her red hair flaring up.
She stops suddenly and cautiously takes it from her, Meghan slightly annoyed and hurries off to her room. Cerrissa, short breathed in the kitchen, these papers vibrating warmth on her outstretched palms. It smells... sweet?... like...
She opens the paper note but notices the booklet cover first; a lion, a moon, and a man with a long blond beard, all in some cosmic dimension.
She turns to the note. Its dark ink reads,

For Festival Cowgirl
And the Rest
-Much Cosmic Love
Johnny Opium













+++
The Third Cosmic Chapter
+++


PABLO FRANCISCO

Another argument with the old lady, another good day ruined. I sought a respite away from the city, and the situation, within the walls of my parents three bedroom suburban retreat. Upon my return to my abode which is more properly located for people of my nature within the parameters of the downtown district of the city of Denver, I entered my apartment, it was dark and quiet but I could tell the lady of the house was in her room, I plopped onto the couch, the leather groaned and sighed as I grooved myself into a comfortable spot on the cushions, as the power from the television began to illuminate the screen something was different, the screen was shattered. Another relationship, this one of four years, now has come and gone.
Having to leave someone they love can really make a person evaluate their lives and really question a lot of things about the world and about themselves. I was riding my bike just after me and Isabel split, thinking about my life, I thought about how nothing’s ever been the same since I came back from Oregon. I still remember how exciting it was to leave my home, Colorado, where I grew up and head west with no idea what the future had in store truly living in the moment, feeling the highness of intentional absorption within a world of Zen, life was so exciting then. It was the summer of 2003 and we had just graduated from high school. I and my two companions, Rat and Slingman knew we were going to leave the Dairy Queens, Safeways, and cul-de-sacs of our youth, but we didn’t know how, we needed transportation. I started shopping for a van. The third one we test drove was a white 1987 GMC traveling van with wood interior paneling, captain’s seats, a bench/futon, and even bright white track lights controlled by a switch under the steering wheel lining the ceiling and floor of the cosmic vehicle. We named it Van Morrison. When I went to purchase it from its owner who lived about five minutes from my folk’s house, he was asking $3000.00 dollars for it. I explained to the man, who was a blue collar worker who seemed tired but affable with grease on his hands and dirt on his clothes, what we were doing and why we needed the van, I saw his dull, sunken, grey eyes brighten up a bit. He told us that what we had said reminded him of what he was doing when he bought the van so many years before; he said he would sell us the van for $1000.00 dollars cash. I returned to the gentleman about three hours later and gave him $800.00 and told him this was all that we had. He thought for a minute or two looking at me as I looked back at him and he said, “You boys have yourselves an adventure.”
It took each of the three of us about an hour to get our things together so we could depart the place of our births. We each sprung our surprise goodbyes on the people we loved and they cried and waved as they watched us speed away. The feeling was like nothing I had ever experienced as we hit the freeway and started heading west. I drove the entire way without stopping with the help of about fifteen red bulls drank in increments along the way.
As I ride my bike through the streets of Denver I think of everything I went through in Portland, I think about how I lived in purposeful poverty so as to motivate myself to make a decent comfortable life by dangling one of my possible futures in front of my young, confused eyes that are wide and doughy. I think about the trip to the coast and the trip to the Eugene celebration. I think about the drugs, and the hospital.
I arrive to the bar for work, and ride through the long skinny room and dismount just before I reach the door to the back patio.
It’s been about a week since the breakup and I’m at work slangin drinks to some of the bars regulars just thinking and thinking. It felt like something was going to happen, and then I hear the electronic beep that sounds to alert me when someone is entering the front door of the drinkery. I turn my head from my conversation I see just over some patrons heads none other than my old friend Mr. Johnny Opium stroll through the front door looking traveled and somewhat stony. I greet him with a hug and a smile. As I slide a beer into the hand of my old high school buddy the eccentric traveling writer, he begins to fill me in on what he’s been doing since the last time he came through town which was seven months prior. We catch up, and begin visit number two since Johnny began traveling.

JOHNNY OPIUM

The smooth amber taste of a Fat Tire has followed me all over my travels. A local brewery reaching world wide success is the American dream but the new American dream is to bring that success back into the community. New Belgium is a Green, employee owned, business. The success of the business all depends on the success of its employees.

Hung over from catching up with old friends in Denver, I have acquired the name “co-pilot” of the Warrior tour bus for tonight’s BTS (Bus To Show) event. GreenSky BlueGrass is playing a show in Lyons, Colorado. BTS headquarters is in Boulder, Colorado. The group pick-up is in Fort Collins… Colorado. It’s a triangle of a couple hundred miles and a late night is expected.
The meeting spot for the concert goers is O’Dell Brewery. A good spot for them because many of the crew are O’Dell employees. O’Dell and New Belgium.
“I was putting up with a lot of bull shit from my other job,” I overhear one of the crew slur, “New Belgium respects, Respects!, and understands the employee/business relationship because they love… they lllooooovvveeeee.”
He is still “vee”ing when my gut stirs and I’m hoping to god I will make it to Lyons before I would violently vomit like I know I would.

Only a week prior I cosmically arrived in Fort Collins from Oregon and surprised my sister with a drop in. It was late morning on a Friday and of course the sun was out.
“What if I wasn’t working from home today?” she asked.
I shrugged my shoulders not knowing how to explain my belief in the cosmos. She blew off work and we hopped on her bicycles to tour breweries: New Belgium, O’Dell’s, and Fort Collins Brewery.
It’s not easy staying connected while traveling the cosmos but making cosmic drop-ins can bridge the gaps. I know the importance of staying connected to friends and family who love me. Their love makes them worry and wish I’d seek out stability in my life, but when I travel threw and tell my crazy stories and they see the power, excitement, and health in me, their love numbs briefly until they know I’m about to take it more extreme and they worry more.
“In search of growth,” I smile.
The sadness in my mother’s eyes makes coming home a tease… for all of us. I’m not a martyr but there’s something that keeps me going. It’s the excitement I see in my friends’ eyes that says,
“Holy shit, he’s doing it!”

Now I’m finishing off my Fat Tire at a pub across from Coors Field. Coors, another local brewery. I had dinner by myself; the first time since my arrival home. I’m by myself and I feel the most power in me.

I love my generation. Turning twenty-five in two months makes me realize the beliefs I grew into are not only within myself. Colorado always had a reputation of coming up Red in the Presidential elections. Yet, I didn’t know many people who believed in the Republican Party. (Not saying I’m a strong believer in the Democrats either.)
It was the day Barack Obama gave his Democratic candidate acceptance speech as I flew into Denver from my first major hiatus. Rage Against the Machine protested with a concert. They, themselves, only recently reforming from a long hiatus. So much beautiful chaos and I arrive at the end.
That’s what I love about Colorado. It does fine without me. Touring the cosmos to open my consciousness and when I return, Denver has progressed beyond my own manifestations. “It’s not the city, it’s the people.” I think how the quote read on a building downtown.
The DNC with Obama on my first return home, legalizing medical marijuana the second time. What will it be the next time?
I sit at the Retro Room off Larimer Street drinking free beers from my friend the bartender and read up on “Higher Law” in the Westword.

“Come on America,” I say outloud while walking along the lonesome highway in Central Oregon. “Where’s the America I believe in and will save me?” After seven months on the west coast, fall and winter is approaching fast and green Eugene has deceived me like a Siren, letting me continue my dream. I woke up excited and started another. Hitchhiking home is the coolest thing I could do and bringing a couple ounces of homegrown is even cooler.
“Do you know the pain you’re causing your parents?” my brother-in-law would later judge me.
“You think that loving family I left in Oregon didn’t have any pain leaving me on the side of the road to travel over a thousand miles with no means or money?” I countered.

I don’t know what time it is as I rest on a guard rail from a long walk along the highway, but it’s early morning. There is cloud coverage stalling the sunrise but I got moving at the first hint of light. The “badlands” of Oregon are again vast prairie and knee high bushes scattered everywhere. I smoke a bowl and wonder over how crazy the previous night’s sleep was.

I wrote “BEND” on a paper sack with a black marker and found a heads up penny early on the trip. Three rides has now gotten me one hundred and fifty miles, twenty five miles past Bend, Oregon.
“What are you going to do if you won’t stay in my barn?” a concerned driver asked me before he dropped me off at a ridge. A dark rain cloud was creeping up on me from the West and when its rain found me, I became desperate at waving down cars. This driver was driving West, in my opposite direction, and turned around to give me the lead again.
I smile at him and say, “The cosmos shall provide.”
He, skeptical, leaves me on the side of the road.
Enough time for me to set down my pack and smoke some rips from my bowl am I back in line. The dark rain clouds are quickening the sunset when the first car after my rest climbs the hill. I wave him down at the summit, half-joking with stoned encouragement (half-joking because it’s surprising how many people wouldn’t pick up a desperate vagabond in the rain). The long walk after I got to Bend in the mid-afternoon found me pondering gorilla camping along the road. But the car stopped and I picked up my gear, jogging up to it saying to myself,
“Rambling man.”
“I can take you as far as Millican,” the driver says as I open the passenger door.
“Whatever,” I say, “as far as you can.”
“Millican’s not a town,” he warns and continues to explain, while driving, the town was thriving in 1910 but now all that remains is a broken down gas station. “According to Guinness Book of World Records, it’s the smallest town in America. Population zero.”
There aren’t any buildings in sight along the drive where the boundaries of Millican borders. A small gap in the hills curves the road North but straightens East at its plateau. The old gas station ghostly appears out of the badlands twilight and the driver eases the car off the paved highway onto the rocky dirt horseshoe drive. No other buildings are around. The station’s sign is still standing; no name on it, just empty space of the was there square. Shards of broken yellow jagged sign do remain lower where gas prices were posted. It hides itself from view as the car pulls underneath.
“This is the town!?” I ask genuinely surprised.
“I told you,” the man says and gets out the car.
I’m looking out the dusty window and see a ruined store with a large garage attached. Taking a deep breath, I open the door and step out with my rucksack. The building’s appearance has gotten worse. The two large front windows are broken-in. The wooden front door is widely ajar. And what probably was a front porch is littered with highway debris: cardboard, cans and bottles, rubber from tires…
The driver walks over to my side of the car and stops next to me to join in the sad and confused sight.
“Welp!” he laughs walking past me, to a large black mailbox next to the station’s sign. He bends over as he opens the front to peer in. Straightening, he reaches in and pulls out a couple postage envelopes. Quickly shuffling them over and without looking up at me, he jesters with a nod of his head toward the station.
“You can stay the night here if you like or try waving down a trucker,” he looks up at me with bright eyes and a smile. “Either way, I must be off. Best of luck to you.” He shakes my hand and walks around the front of the car before giving me a wave as he ducks in. He pulls out of the drive and heads back West from wench he came.
I turn back to the station and smile, “Home!” Walking along the store, even the smaller windows are broken-in. It goes without saying the white paint is mostly chipped off, leaving the exposed wood rotten. Weeds have taken over and coming up to the garage, yes, each panel was glass and now is missing and jagged broken-in, and the weeds are actually growing from the inside out.
I walk around to the back of the garage and find a wooden door slightly open. Before I go in, I take a look South. Small barren mountains are dark in the near distance and the dusty scattered bushland is keeping us at a good distance. Turning toward the door, its window broken-in, I push it open easily.
This first back room is deserted. My flashlight helps me look around for that dark rain cloud has ate the sun. The air is moistening. Looking around the dusty wooden floor reveals a lot of broken glass on the ground, but even more concerning is an even more so lotsa rat droppings.
“Oye!” I shout a joke to determine if any humans might be inhabiting this place. Getting no reply encourages me to continue exploring into the next room. It too is deserted except for broken glass and rat droppings. A couple wooden doors are off their hinges and lay sideways propped against a wall. I go threw another doorway and find myself in the front of the store. Highway litter is more dominate in here and only reveals itself in the dark when I flash my light over it.
A huge wood burning stove is over by a corner but this is the only remaining furniture. Completing my circle now threw the garage; lotsa highway debris but no real evidence of a person currently taking up residence.
“So I will!” I laugh.
Returning back threw the store, I do again notice something I glanced over before and glance over again. There are two single mattresses (bedsprings) stacked on top of each other with a wooden door resting flat on top.
Spotting a closed door I didn’t see prior, I sneak up to it and kick it in with a loud bang! The door flies open but the force off the wall throws it back shut. I spotted what I think is a toilet.
The ever present silence is broken with trucks and cars occasionally passing. Now that I kicked in the door, it’s silentier than ever. I still have to check behind the door. Taking a deep breath, I calmly turn the handle of the door and let it slowly swing open with me back and my flashlight shinning in. Nobody there but a dusty white toilet sitting a grin back at me. I step in to quickly check behind the door. Nobody. I jump out and close the door grossed out.
Not wanting anybody to know I’m here, I would turn off my light whenever a car would pass. Seeking privacy with my light, I return to the back of the store. The first room I came threw has less windows, which means less broken glass. I grab one of the abandoned doors and drag the heavy thing to my room. Before laying it down, I sweep my foot across the floor to make it a little bit cleaner.
Laying down the door, then unrolling my bedroll and then sleeping bag, I take off my blue Chucks Ts and sit down crosslegged with my light, grinning. The lite puttering of rain is beginning to be heard on the soft outside dirt. Inside, I am warm and dry. Comfortable even.
Have not yet felt the day’s hunger, mostly due to the excitement of hitchhiking home from a hiatus on the West coast, it is now I remember my granola. It’s granola cereal. Having ditched the box the day before, I now have an unopened bag of fresh food. Right when I pop the bag open, I hear a noise different than that of the beginning wild winds.
“Fuck!” I finally come to the realization. “Rats!” and I really realize those mattresses in the front aren’t highway debris but a raised bed. I down a couple handfuls of granola and wash it down with some water before I hurrily gather my things and move places.
The raised bed is ready for me. I again lay down my bedroll and sleeping bag, find a high ledge for my rucksack, and lay down on my back to stare up into the darkness with my flashlight gripped tightly in my hands on my chest.
Scurrying can be heard over in the garage. “That’s fine,” I try to convince myself. “They’re over there and I’m over here.”
Only occasionally now would a car or truck drive by with a loud whoosh. The rain has gotten heavier, and the corner by the stove can be heard having a heavy leak. Dripping constantly. Once in a while, I would hear a can scrape against the cement or small feet over cardboard, but again, I am warm and dry. A little freaked out, but safe.
I am finally able to relax my muscles when I hear some sniffing and scurrying in the backroom behind my head. I quickly roll onto my stomach and flash the light that way. The thing gets scared and runs back towards the garage. I don’t get to see it so I’m not sure exactly it’s a rat. A roadkill possum was squashed back a ways when I was walking the highway. “And those things can be aggressive, right?” my mind begins to wander.
It isn’t until the third scare where I actually get a look at one of them. A rat is the conclusion I come to, but this rat, tail included, was the size of my forearm. “At that point, what is the difference between rat and possum?” I freak myself out.
The rain continues throughout the night and so does the rat’s curiosity of me. There are only a couple of them, maybe two or three. Fuck, what do I know? There can be more but they only come at me one at a time. After each time I’d scare one off, enough time would pass for my muscles to relax again, and a huge rat would be braver than the time before to check on me.
The first couple times the flashlight alone was enough to keep them at bay. Now loud screams had to accompany it. This would leave me waking from a shallow dream every so often to click on my light and flash it around at some ghostly scurrying and me screaming at the top of my lungs. Screaming myself awake becomes exhausting. When I accompany throwing a nearby bottle and later some fallen plaster from the wall, I think it is enough for the rats because it is a long time before I wake again. Long enough for me to have a quick dream.
I dreamt I fell off my raised bed and landed and squished a rat that was sniffing near me.
A scurrying noise is closer than I have heard before. It is right by my head. I wake up screaming and flashing my light to find one of the rats run quickly from next to my bed straight to the backroom.
“You mother fuckers!” I yell. Having to take a piss, I jump up and pee myself a circle on the ground around my bed. “Fucking leave me alone!!” I cry as I get back in the sleeping bag.
The rain has stopped but the corner is still slowly dripping. There is a little bit of sunlight thinning out the darkness but it is still heavy dark. A coyote howls in the distance.
The remainder of my time in the gas station I spend wide-eyed staring at the ceiling. Growing anxiety and boredom helps me decide there is enough light outside where drivers can see me walking along the highway.
I take my things outside to pack and hurry down the highway hoping the overcast sky would break up so I could catch the sunrise.

Hopping off a guard rail after smoking the second bowl of the morning, I begin to get skeptical of the cosmos. The morning is still young, the sun is just breaking threw the clouds, but I’ve been walking for awhile. I find a heads up dime and think to myself, “Heads up times ten!”
A short walk more and I turn behind me to look down the road. A couple semi-trucks have already passed me and in doing so have scared me to jump off into the sandy shoulder. Now, I hear a loud semi behind me and I avoid the scare by stepping off to the side before he passes. After he does, I notice he puts on his break lights and pulls over as best he can. I run the two hundred yards where he finally was able to stop. A large flatbed hauling marble flooring is what it is.
I open the passenger door and step up to see a pale white fat man behind the large steering wheel.
“Where ya heading?” He asks with a mouth full of chew.
“Denver!” I throw out there.
He laughs and I ask why.
“This load’s heading for Denver,” he says and spits in a cup.
If that’s not cosmic enough, he plans on taking I-80 coming down North from Wyoming passing threw Fort Collins; the exact route I mapped in my head before leaving Cottage Grove. Now all I have to do is stay awake and help entertain this guy by talking for the next thousand plus mile.

COSMIC TRAVELING

Johnny wakes on the carpeted floor in the middle of a doorway, his reality a heavy fuzz of reunitations. Reuniting with old friends and family, old dives of killing time, and old habits of reckless behavior. Good friends bring this out in cosmic waves. How many times has Johnny left for an indefinite amount of time but only to return to the Mile High City? Enough times for events to be blurring together. Pablo Francisco, a good old friend, has welcomed Johnny’s insistence to passing out on the floor (although there are two couches in the living room and a love seat in the bedroom). The love seat is where Pablo crashed. Waking up to carpet marks on his face, Johnny slips into Pablo’s queen bed.

Shifting from piece-of-furniture to piece-of-furniture in a haze induced by over-indulgence is typical whenever Johnny comes back around. The next day, Pablo’s bed smells like it had been used by a hobo, which is pretty close to what had happened. That night Johnny is back on the floor, again his feet in Pablo’s doorway and his head under a piece of furniture in the living room.
As Johnny’s visit back home continues, the two old friends reminisce about all the crazy adventures they can remember from their past; all the “paloozas”, house parties, stealing beer in high school from people’s garages, close escapes from cops to cheap tricks and tricking, all those broads. Every story brings hard laughter.

Everyday Johnny’s traveling has expanded in some aspect. His vagabond lifestyle is a personal choice as is making a point to re-root himself by coming home to Denver. Halloween was a week long celebration, as Johnny could remember and what better reason to come home than to get fucked up on drugs and booze with old friends while wearing practically nothing but a little face paint.

Pablo is working as a bartender in Lower Downtown Denver, a decent legitimate job, when he first sees Johnny back again. It has been almost seven months since last time Opium dropped in. Pablo’s boss sees him too and asks Pablo if Johnny remembers what he did the last time he was in the bar.
“I think so,” Pablo replies.
Dom, the boss, approaches Johnny at the bar and says hello. They all reminisce about the last time: a book party for TRAVELING BEARD.
They laughed as they recall Johnny addressing the crowd, the music volume fallen silent and the attention held, with his speech:
“Thank you all, my friends, for coming,” Dom recalls the speech. “I just want to say fuck you and rot in hell…”

Johnny smiles embarrassingly but Dom laughs happily from telling the story. Turning back to the bar, Johnny wonders how many more times until he won’t be able to show his face around.
“I’m sure something crazy’s gonna go down this visit,” Pablo laughs on the other side of the bar.
“Eh…” Johnny smiles. “How about you make me the stiffest drink you can!”
Pablo proceeds to make a jalapeño infused tequila Sunrise.
“Didn’t you get suspended from work that night?” Johnny asks, trying to counter-attack. “Isn’t that how the story goes? You were twirling me around on your shoulders? And outside you threw the patio furniture into the street??”
“Did I get suspended?” Pablo thinks. “I don’t remember throwing anything in the street. I don’t think I did.” His face is stern.
“Yeah… well,” Johnny uses the straw to take a sip of the drink. A small taste makes him jump off his seat with a “Whoop!”

“Not bad, eh?” Pablo Francisco laughs.
“Not bad but can I grab something else to drink with it?” Johnny asks.
Pablo sends him a Jack and Coke to accompany the sweet spicy and red orange concoction. The bar is slow this night being a Tuesday and an air of sleepiness hovers amongst the buildings of downtown Denver like a fog hanging heavy and low. Pablo closes out his last customers and closes up early to grab some drinks with his old friend. The two make their way to a bar across the street. With half a beer down the hatch and about a quarter of a cigarette left to smoke, Johnny says it’s time to go. Pablo Francisco finishes his smoke and beer and follows Opium’s direction towards the exit. When he gets outside, Johnny is no where to be found. And phoneless.
“What the fuck!?” Pablo expresses his confusion.
A short black-haired gentleman approaches Pablo Francisco at this point and asks if he had a moment.
“Yes,” Pablo says, “but with one pretense and that is at the end of what you have to say you will not ask me for any money.”
The man agrees and begins his story about how he is new to town and has no friends and on and on. Pablo expresses his sympathy for the man and tells him he wishes him good luck. The gentleman then proceeds to ask Pablo for some money. Pablo finds this to be upsetting considering the agreed pretense. Still, he offers the man some Guinness flavored BBQ wings Opium had brought earlier from a restaurant down the street. The man doesn’t want the wings.
“God damn it!” Pablo yells as he turns to re-enter the bar and proceeds with his drinking, solo.

The two cosmic friends meet up again. The ladies at La Boheme are beautiful and friendly to the two stragglers drinking at the bar. The ladies’ milky smooth nakedness blows them kisses as they stumble out the door, rosie cheeked, into the early morning night of this Monday/Tuesday. The sky is dark over the skyscrapers but looking East down Stout Street is flat Great Plains and a lighter blue horizon is growing.

The two drunken monkeys need a taxi and none is to be found here at this time, which is strange. There is, however, a long white limousine parked across the street. Pablo proposes the driver for a ride.
“The distance would be worth ten dollars,” Pablo explains.
From the limo driver’s furrowed brow it can be inferred he doesn’t really want to do it but with a little persuading he says he will.
The next thing, the two cosmic friends are having the back door to the older limo opened for them. A red pit pull is sitting inside and greets them with licks and smiles.
Down the road they head in the direction of home. Another night capped. The ride is quick but the driver waits with them out front of the apartment complex while Johnny twists and sparks a joint. The limo is baked as all inhale; driver, dog, and all.
The driver thanks them for the spliff, “Smoking a joint in the limo, sweet!!”
They all celebrate the coincidental success as the cosmos smiles upon them.

“This type of shit just doesn’t happen when you’re not around,” Pablo smiles on the walk up to the apartment complex.
“What!?” Johnny laughs, “Like what happened this Halloween weekend!!??”

“King Soopers surly would have some face paint,” Johnny suggests, thinking going as a zombie would provide an escape for his lack of holiday creativity. The day before Halloween and supplies are limited. Face paint is found but so are a French maid outfit and a blond wig of short hair. Normally Johnny doesn’t like to resort to women costumes because he feels he can dress sexy and scandalous without relying on women’s clothing. Then again, a crack whore does give an excuse to dress as a crack whore.
Some black circles around the eyes, white make-up on the tip of the nose, and a little fake blood dripping out of his nostril, with the dress and wig, led many people to ask Johnny,
“Did you lose a bet?” the guy says. “That’s disgusting.”
“No!” Johnny irritatedly replies. “I’m just this comfortable with who I am.”
Laughs surround Johnny as he enters the Retro Room and he orders a Seabreeze, as is in character.
Stepping out of the men’s restroom, Johnny is fixing himself under the mid-thigh dress (mid-thigh if the dress is being worn by its designed five-seven, thin, female. Johnny is a six foot, thin male) when a woman pirate comments,
“Don’t adjust yourself like that under your dress,” and she says something about a camel toe.
“Try elephant foot!” Johnny barks and goes back to his girly drink.

The French coke whore/maid and her date, the drunken hobo clown (Johnny and Pablo) entered the bar where Pablo is employed. No one recognize them but no one minded laughing at them either. A small crowd is building. It is around eight o’clock on the night before Halloween and a bit of electricity is felt in the air. Johnny downs more and more brightly colored cocktails with assorted fruit hanging off the edge of each glass. Pablo orders shot after shot until consciousness is definitely skewed. Out of the corner of his ear, Pablo overhears someone on the front porch of the bar say something to Johnny about his underwear.
“Oh no!” Francisco thinks.
Next thing, Johnny helps his underwear onto the sidewalk and people are cracking up until their expressions change from looks of lightness and amusement to expression of heavy shock and awe. Johnny is showing everyone what is under his skirt and begins juggling and waving it at them all. The crowd turns to Pablo Francisco who exclaims,
“Don’t look at me! My dick is still in my pants.”
From the onlookers at the bar, Opium turns to the road and begins waving down cars, even a cop car.
“As the story goes,” a regular would later recall.
Either way, when the cars get close enough to Johnny, they are bombarded with Johnny’s dancing penis trick.
Un-freaking-believable!

Pablo runs up to Johnny in the road, pulling against his shoulder, and says, “Johnny, you really should put your underwear back on.”
“OK,” Johnny turns and smiles, pulling his skirt down. “But ya gotta shield me.”
“Yeah, of course, man,” Pablo agrees not considering Johnny now… needs… cover.
They run across the street to a vaguely empty sidewalk. A couple walks by as Pablo outstretches his hands and says, “Nothing to see here,” while Johnny fumbles around behind.
“Whew,” Johnny giggles, breathing heavy alcohol breath in Pablo’s ear.
“Lets go have some fun,” Pablo laughs, putting his arm around Johnny.

Walking back into the drinkery is the last memory the travelers have of that evening.
As Pablo opens his eyes he sees daylight and searches the room confused, thankful as he realizes he is at his home looking down through his groggy foggy vision. He chuckles as he looks at his couch pillow and sees its brown fabric is covered in black and white paint. Hearing a shuffle and a groan he finds his comrades from the previous night’s debauchery but Johnny is not present; lost in the fog of Halloween weekend 2009.

“And why am I still wearing the garter?” Johnny laughs himself awake. He’s in another Denver friend’s bed. The apartment is vacant except for two dogs who have torn up a book, Pictures of Dorian Gray.
Smoking a joint to numb his hangover, then slipping in the tub/shower, Bilal taps on the window but has to wait until Johnny is done.
The two cosmic friends meet up with Pablo who has been drinking since he woke around noon.
“Shots around!!” they all cheers.
Beers and retelling of last night’s stories fill their time until the sun goes down. Only partly in costume, they head back to Pablo’s near-by apartment to snort lines and put on makeup.

White lines are painted across faces as white lines are absorbed into psyches through the players’ noses. The night begins to pick up speed as loud tunes blasting out of speakers, echoing as their vibrations bounce around the room like crazy bouncy balls let loose into the two bedroom two bath fun house.
Into the yellow checkered chariot the three costumed chuckleheads enter and proceed to their underground drinking room. As they approach their destination they all perk up as they see the intersection they’re approaching flooded with hundreds of Halloween Holligans all with pillows in hand. It’s the greatest pillow fight any had witnessed in their short lives. The light changed and the travelers enter the dark alcohol dispensary through a barely noticeable alley door.

A quick slip into the underground bar where sexy police officers, nurses, and firefighters (sexy public servers) with their short skirts and bare legs, are handing out free shots. The group of cute girl dancers next to the bar are stalling the paramedic bartender.
The cosmic friends down many a shots from the blond dark angle.
“Off to the Retro Room!” they slur.
At the door of the next bar, no more than a couple tens of minutes pass before Johnny is no longer served shots and Pablo’s act, him falling swaying drunkenly exaggerated, is called out. The Oxi Clean guy forewarns Pablo of his PBR resting on the table. Pablo, the drunken silent clown, stumbles off to the side and gives the guy a thumbs up, then stumbles back over to the table threatenly, saves his fall, straightens up with a reassured smile, turns then sits right on top of the full beer. Beer going everywhere, the guy jumps at Pablo who jesters and jokes then jumps on the bar tauntingly.
“You’re now outta here, too,” Dom, the boss, yells.

Pablo kicked out of his own bar, again. Unbelievable. No matter. The two friends needed to head to the concert across the street by that time anyway. The Swollen Members are playing and Pablo and Opium have tickets.
Upon entering the venue, Pablo continues with his mute overly wasted hobo clown routine which includes him putting his own ID through detailed scrutiny before clumsily handing it over to the doorman.
The doorman calls over his supervisor. The two confer and inspect the drunken sad clown. Pablo, frustrated, breaks character to explain he is not in actuality a drunken hobo clown and is in a perfectly decent state of mind to be allowed entrance to the establishment. The two are granted entrance and begin another show.

What’s to be said but these two are drunken hilarious. Popping with the loud bass and rhythmatic lyrics, a hobo and whore having the most fun at the concert is too much for some. Some of the crowd cuts off their dance floor. No matter. That was the encore. Off to the near-by bar, Herbs, and Pablo’s silent routine gets shots for them and the two pretty ladies sitting at the bar. A smile is all the ladies could offer before the two cosmic friends are off again.

To the after party in a very posh swanky basement loft a few block away. White lines disappear off of glass table tops as quickly as they are formed. So incriminating! Shots and shots and shots. Francisco finds himself alone with a German beer wench in the abandoned poker room.
“I’m leaving town tomorrow,” she says invitingly. Soft kisses ensue. Pablo explains he has nowhere to take her, somewhat upset and very disappointed. The two part-time lovers decide to exchange goodbyes.
Pablo grabs the wench before she leaves to wipe off a bit of his face paint from her mouth. She asks if she is “good” and he nods as he watches her turn away with her face splattered and smudged with black and white and red paint. Hilarious! Pablo finds what looks like a wretched blond French whore passed out on a grey microfiber sofa. It’s Johnny. They retrieve a taxi and head back to Pablo’s funhouse, racing the sunrise.

The next afternoon, Johnny “nahs” himself awake startled he didn’t know he fell asleep. Smoking a joint to ease his nerves, Pablo comes out his room for a glass of water. Johnny hands him the joint as Isabel comes out of her room, furious yelling at Johnny.
“Doesn’t it bother you we’re breaking up and you’re always here…?”
“I’m not bothered,” Johnny smiles.
Pablo smiles and says, “Yeah, Johnny’s always welcome.”

DSOUL

'its not just because weed is legal there, i mean, that's great, too, but the place is just beautiful. the people are honest and modest and the bikes, man! you ride your bike fucking everywhere, its awesome. huh!.....'.
recalling amsterdam had suddenly brought back its wonder-full haze and for the next moment, i was lost in captivation by the glazed memories of my time there. i strolled through my collection of washed-out mental polaroids--mostly canals, bikes, lovers and spliffs--with all the due casualness a place like the dam deserves. sam thought i was apparently enthralled by the view outside of the bus--the still image of the ranch in which it was parked--but i was certainly not seeing it. no, i was looking over my handlebars as i coasted over the arched back of a bridge spanning a dutch canal, a glowing ember devouring the end of my lucky strike.
Sam was holding a bag of trash and gradually adding to its collection of social activity debris from last night's mobile operations-concert via bus. The clank of a new can on an old bottle brought me back to the moment and the mess in front of me. the talk of my old bohemian colleague, johnny opium, passing through town had brought back memories of amsterdam, where our paths first crossed. i was excited by the possibility of seeing my old friend again, though i wasn't sure if my velocity would slow (or speed up?) enough for us to meet. afterall, halloween was approaching in less than two weeks and then just a week after that, would be the cd release for my band, jonny woodrose & the broken hearted woodpeckers. christ. thought of the impending holiday and what it would mean for bus-to-show operations made me sick and the fact that our album wasn't even done hammered the fist of angry butterflies deep in my gut. it was all lose ends. it was all vague and foggy, just like the weather, the memories of amsterdam, the images of the show-to-come. the only thing certain was the inevitability of it all. the dates were set and the passage of time rarely ceases. by mid-november everything would be over and everything would be beginning again.

the cell phone is ringing in its little cubby in the dash of the old school bus that is my daily-driver. well, i mean, i drive it daily. for my job--driving construction workers to the job site--1.2 miles 4 times a day for a cool $75. yeah the hours suck. but fuck man, in this economy any job is a good job. its an amber glown afternoon of late fall and i answer the phone even though i shouldn't. even though the assbossman at the site said, "if i catch you driving and talking on your phone, someone else'll be doing this run." shit. man. any job may be a good job in this economy, but any job is still one you can bitch about.
anyway.
so i fucking answer the phone and no shit, its goddamn jonny opium on the other end. he's coming into town. luckily, its a monday, and i've only got one thing i care to do and i really care to do it cause its a day late--the national media (whores) have forced me to wait. whatever, i'll watch my broncos whenever i can and that's what's up tonight. i tell him my plans and before i know it im runnin into my old pal over some typical bar food, trying to get the conversations warmed up from a year ago watching the boys in orange and blue. you know, its funny when you run into old friends after its been a while. things take a while to start up and run like you want. for convenience, i like to think of it as a lot like starting an old bus on a cold, i mean really, really cold, morning. its called, 'gettin her to operating temperature' for those of you un-wised up on such things it goes like this:
1) turn on master power switch in battery bay
2) turn on master control switch on dash
3) check battery by simply hitting the 'engine start' button like it will actually fire up and run just fine, which it wont, otherwise we wouldn't be here in the first place, dumbass.
4) if it cranks over like its got a good charge, make on to step 5, if not refer to operator's manual under section, "What to Do When Something in Your Electrical is Fucked", make a pot of coffee, and come back with a better attitude, you'll need it.
5) now, go to back, as to be close to the engine, and try starting from the rear, like something might now suddenly work better and.... what a surprise, it don't. but you didn't think it really would, you were just checkin that switch, too. gotta keep these variables controlled when working with electrical
6) so, it don't start, but its okay, you didn't mean it anyway, just checkin that you aren't takin it personal yet
7) go find some ether. (that is the breakfast of champion buses and the only way to get a lot of these old ones out of bed. can't blame 'em. in fact, i've heard of many who, later in life, opt to start the day with a healthy dose of their favorite narcotic. fuck, i know many young ones who do it too. its no surprise that, similarly, its always around except when you need it.)
8) now curse, 'where's the fucking ether?' just get it out
9) find it the last place you look. only jackasses keep looking after they get what they need
10) its frustrating already, but DONT light that cigarette now, unless you're a pro, you'll blow your face off
11) while reaching into the engine through the area traced by the fan belt (watch your sleeves) spray that horrible, volatile, fuck-up of a molecule into the little cap on the intake
14) i know you didn't before, but now you gotta mean it...
15) reach over with your other hand and tap down the momentary switch for the rear-start (seriously, you better fucking mean it cause you can't keep on fucking with her like an ass hoping for it to work, the old ones are ladies, not whores)
16) let it crank over as you spray so she can cough the ether into her cylinders, let 'er have a nice big suck on the can
17) mean it now, you gotta start it with INTENTION damnit, it knows when you're being a little bitch
18) keep cranking, but stop spraying just after some of the cylinders begin to perk up (approx 2-27 seconds). lay down on the throttle to fire up the rest and release the starter switch when you think she's got enough steam to keep it up on her own. oh, and too much ether will honest to god blow the pistons clean apart, so keep that in mind, now.
19 ) you should be running, so continue to mean it and let er come to at fast idle. well done, she's outta bed.
20) if, somehow, you've gone through those steps correctly and you're not running now, stop.... you jackass. you clearly don't mean it. you shouldn't try again for a bit. so, put on a pot of coffee, work up some stone, and come back with a better attitude.

safe to say we weren't jackasses and we had good attitudes, but there wasn't enough action for us to start meaning it, if you get what i mean. prior conversations had us on the same page and we knew to expect nothing less than (debatably?) perfect, manic insanity. but for now halloween was still days away, the show more than a week, and for that matter, the meat off the bone around the marrow was still being developed through strenuous exercise, hardly fit for the human consumption coming up. (as a side note, the broncos lost. and haven't won since. [as of nov.23, 2009, 4 games later] i think we stole their thunder, putting me in a real quandary as to what to do with it) so we parted ways late in the night, after an open mic that followed the game. we were ready to get there but time wasn't and the raging butterflies in my gut had gone from nervous to manic and, possibly, slightly, drunk. assholes.

halloween happened. it was probably for the best that this day we (myself and jonny o) resolved not to meet, and ill not speak much of it here, except for giving you this moonshine de muerta i distilled from my recollection of it.
first came snow pure vida pure white, the buses surrendered early, but we forced them to fight. then came the mud. fighting in the mud with buses that don't want to fight. (you want to know how to make war god awful? you want to know 37% of why trench warfare is hell? the mud. second only to the machine gun, but i must digress lest we dilute the 'shine and lessen its effect...) halfway through the muddy bastard and larry suddenly can't supply the requisite fighters and even i'm in trouble over securing the location of all our fighters. we had called (marv's) for some heavy equipment mercenaries (tow trucks) and finally ditched the mud. i got final word from larry that we were all accounted for and now it was hopefully just time to pick the cherry of this one...or pop it... we picked up the riders, the partiers, the costumed masses, the young and the beautiful of boulder late, but not too late, and proceeded to make on accordingly. 'no inline NEVER made on,' is a good piece of wisdom on a night like halloween. minds, time, and lines, all dropped one by one, though not necessarily in that order and the night finally tamed enough for us to really ride her somewhere around 1:30 in the am and it was good.
after the night, there was still some trouble. a bus was impounded after it sat for too long where it ran out of diesel--only 100 yards from where it dropped its passengers at the end of the night--which was both a miracle and a disaster. but other than the small things that'll drive you crazy, we made it. and vowed never to speak of it or let it happen again. gulping and gasping and sucking down the war dance left our asses ragged and minds a few notches closer to full crazy. the kind of crazy that was exactly a week away from hallow's eve, the release party. the release party. the re-lease party the release of everything parrrty the letting go party re:lease party new ones on life for a night or as long as you'd like.

the overall panorama was supremely majestic and life was generally feeling fluffy when jonny o and i linked up again. it had been a few days since halloween and now we found ourselves atop the lookout of the warrior bus. we surveyed the open space around the ranch's backyard in the noonlight. the day had come easily and i was enjoying a majestic and hazily sunlit maryjanehigh that felt just for us. we sat on the roof of the gal and puffed,,,puffed,,, we owned the moment the world was telling us we owned. soon, the operation into the openended consciousness and wild insanity warranted by the occasion would begin, and even more soon, it would be done.
JOHNNY OPIUM

Waking on the bus at the end of October is a fridged experience. “But you’re from Colorado,” House of Payne, the bassist, said, “so you’re probably use to the cold.”
“Granted so,” my face shows with my furrowed brow and one corner of the mouth raised. “But I’ve only just returned to Colorado briefly from a seven month hiatus,” I wanted to say as well as, “I’ve never really liked the cold. Sure…” Here I would shift my weight to my right leg in a way that makes my butt stick out. I’d put my hand on my hip, jetting my elbow out, and with my left arm I’d point off to the distance as if I’m directing someone or waving to them.
You’d be thinking threw my ramble, “What is he point at?” so you turn to look behind you. The only thing there is a book case, which gets you thinking about that cool book you’ve started, the one you’re just getting to know the plot and characters, “Oh, he’s running around hopping trains, that sounds cool,” you thought before you picked it up but now you’re a couple chapters in and you’re discovering, along with the protagonist, you’re discovering to embrace uncertain circumstances, which is the reason you came over to you’re buddies place to record some music and you end up talking to this one guys, a nice, clean shaven guy with short brown hair. “It looks like he cuts it himself,” would be a thought you trail into once he began rambling his stories. They’re exciting stories. The story of his first night in Los Angeles from hitchhiking out of Colorado was interesting. He broke up a fight on Hollywood Boulevard and had to hold a guy’s stab wound until the paramedic’s showed up.
Now that’s an interesting story but then you trail off again because before you could comment on that story, he’s already segwayed into the next and all you wanted to say to this guy was, “If you’re gonna sleep out on the Warrior, there’s a radiator you could bring out there.” But he’s passed you the bong of some homegrown from Oregon. You take a hit while you think, you think, he’s wrapping up on a story but Sam just had to fucking come over and ask him about his travels and he starts another story, a different one, this one’s pretty crazy too, something about rats. You hit the bong one more time and you’re head floats away. Taking a seat, your mind trails off with the psychedelic electronic music dsoul is playing with his guitar and sampler. Having fallen asleep, you wake abruptly. It’s dark in the garage but the cast-iron stove is still warm. No one’s there, you are covered in a blanket and feel quiet comfortable. You adjust in the seat by curling into a ball and snuggle yourself back asleep while you think how cold that poor bastard on the bus must be.

To avoid any of that, I politely smile and walk to the backyard where the 1975 Worland Warrior tour bus is parked between two school buses. The seats have been replaced with couches, making it the ultimate party bus.
It’s called BTS. (Bus To Show) They shuttle people all over Colorado to concerts and clubs, parties and festivals.
It really all began with a trip out to Bonnaroo. A tour bus acquired from a ski videographer friend and an open invite for riders to help get it to the music festival. Of course it was awesome, everything worked out, and they all had a magical time. A small group of eighteen. Many strangers before, but all were young adventurous adults with open minds.
After the experience, an idea was sparked to localize the bus tour while continuing the festivals.

My first return to North America, Colorado only briefly until Toronto, I few in to Denver the night Barack Obama was given his acceptance speech at the DNC. STS9 was playing a show at Red Rocks Amphitheater around this time and a cosmic chick invited me to go. I knew dsoul was going to be there busing people to the show. dsoul, another cosmic person I too met out in the cosmos of Amsterdam. I knew about dsoul before I even met him. It was Dust who I met the summer before at yet an other Red Rocks show. The String Cheese Incident was playing their last shows before a temporary hiatus. I met Dust in the parking lot in front of a huge old school Warrior tour bus. He told me his idea for the bus, and I loved it immediately, however, I was preparing to embark on my first solo mission to live out in the cosmos and wouldn’t be around to watch the bus grow. I wished him luck and he me.
“If you’re hading out to Amsterdam,” Dust smiled, “then look up my buddy dsoul. He’s heading out there to study abroad also.”
I nodded my head and said, “Sure,” thinking what are the chances me bumping into his friend.
A cosmic plane ride over the Atlantic where I got to sit next to a pretty, blond, Dutch woman (we met up again later). The ride put me in good spirits. I meet up with the study crew in the terminal and pulled out a cigarette to celebrate my arrival. Who but dsoul comes bounding up to me and asks to bum a smoke.
“I know we’ll be hanging out later,” he said. “I’ll get you back.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been in Europe this whole fucking time,” dsoul laughs as I give him a hug in the Red Rocks parking lot a year later. The whole bottom lot is filled with orange school buses. “Twenty,” dsoul later said. All being used for BTS.
The Warrior, tall and shinny chrome, sticks out from the rest as it rests at the front of the lot. A DJ is on the roof spinning some heavy electronic bass and a crowd of people are dancing and laughing on the side of the bus. dsoul, long, straight black hair and trimmed beard, his retro plaid suit and white dress shoes, leads me over to the keg as I say, genuinely impressed, “This is some fucking cool shit!”

I slept perfectly well on the Warrior when I came back again from the cosmos. There are five couches on the bus to choose from. Granted, two are dilapidated, one is missing some cushions, and the matching two, one had a whole lotta dark beer recently spilt on it.
Waking on that nice soft cotton-cushioned couch with the warm Colorado fall sun is heaven to me. The couches are parallel with the bus, having it being parked facing South. Beer cans and bottles are scattered on the floors, onto the couches, kinda by the stolen Texaco trash can. There is an almost finished handle of VODKA vodka on the makeshift wooden table where the only two sets of the original coach chairs remain. Seeing it again makes Johnny recoil in disgust from drinking too much of it the night before. Heavy red wool blankets cover the windows on one side. Four makeshift bunk beds fold up on the other side. There’s a countertop table against the back wall of the bus. An extension cord lays deserted from previous DJs setting up back there. The bathroom can be raunchy if not taken to a dump station every so often. This morning, it’s raunchy.
I lied, there’s another set of coach chairs up front near the driver but on the door side. And, yep, the driver’s seat is the same. Hard floors in front and once white but now gray carpet is in the back. Permanent marker, tagging paint, is written all over the ceiling, walls and windows. Posters of past shows (Phil Lesh, Lotus, STS9) on the ceiling. Bonnaroo, Obama, New Belgium stickers up front. And Mardi Gras beads with a retro striped “I <3 YMSB” neck tie are hanging from the review mirror. The emergency hatch in the back is open for easy access to the roof.
Outside, the fifteen foot silver bus rides five inches higher with the air brakes on. A large and long “WORLAND WARRIORS” is painted on both sides with a retro white jagged line, backdrop orange. And a head of a Warrior Indian, powerful, strong, and proud, the side view of his face points forward the bus. His long brown hair in two ponytails are tied with orange beads. A simple string orange headband holds a circle with an X holding a while feather. Orange neck beads complete his stern posture.
Chief Washakie is his name.
I close my eyes and nod my head before turning towards the ranch house across the field.

COSMIC TRAVELING

“Live From the Garage” is the name of their album. Beautiful, heart-felt, blues rock with psychedelics and humor. The same garage where the album was recorded, the same garage where the music is practiced, the same garage where booze and drugs are used and misused.
“You’d think we’re alcoholics,” dsoul jokes as he throws yet more empty beer cans and bottles in the recycling trash can. Johnny nods his head with a smile as he is pouring out an abandoned solider, practically a full Coors Light.
Lost cups, mugs, and bowls are found too. Dirty from weeks of abandonment, they are brought inside the ranch house for some poor soul to clean. Dustiness smokes out the garage as dsoul sweeps leaf matter out the wide door. The small wooden table is wiped off and the two cosmic friends sit down to roll a long morning joint like the ones they smoked back in Amsterdam.
Jason, the English bloke living at the house, had to connect two Zig Zags together for them for Johnny, “could never do that right,” he admits.
Talk of how to begin cosmic writing helps their patience as Johnny breaks up alota of his homegrown. The joint is rolled, looking like a dog bone.
“I didn’t try it Dutch style,” Johnny grins to dsoul, “or maybe I’m not use to rolling such fatties!”
“It’s a bloint!” dsoul laughs. “Just another reason we need to get back to the Nederlands.”
Johnny sparks the joint questionably. It lights and stays lit. Burns evenly too. They smoke half of it and set it down to write.

Looking around the garage had brought dsoul back to the show, back to the cosmic dream-turned-reality that had been born that night. For some reason, he could only remember the time he spent on stage in black and white; looking out over the crowd, then back down at his long legs sprawling out from under his guitar. It was the tightly-packed center of the spiraling galaxy that had been the past month. And it had all started and ended, it seemed, in this garage, around the wood stove at it heart.
And now, dsoul and Johnny O. are about to start something new right next to the ashes that were burned during the sunrise the morning after the show.

There’s a bong between them as they sit in their chairs, hunched over, trying exhaustedly to smoke the weed. First the bowl and male piece must be cleaned, which takes long scrounging to find something to poke it with (a chop stick is finally used). The sticky job of getting out the resin is next. And no lighter is the last challenge too heavy to hunt for.
Their high is still buzzing from a long night of rock and party when their friends return with more candy. Johnny laughs as dsoul purposely uses one of their cigarettes to burn a hole in his left pant leg.
“Why’d you do that?” Johnny asks.
“I’ve just decided I can only wear these pants once,” dsoul laughs.
The dirt and beer stained sunflower yellow pants dsoul bought at a thrift store for their CD release party are actually women’s pants. Size 6. Crotch grabbers is what they are dsoul admits and laughs, “I have no where to put my junk!!” after the third person comments to him after seeing him in the tight pants. dsoul turns around to finish stringing his guitar and the girl next to Johnny smiles and blushes at dsoul’s tight ass.

It is true, though, there is no way anything could ever be relived or reworn from that night which is quickly melting into day in the world outside the garage. The events of the night before had painted a mythical shade on everything that is unlikely to appear more than once.
Travel back in time.
Out in the grass bordering the dirt bordering Cherryvale Road where the ranch took-up, Johnny Opium, Jonny Woodrose, House of Payne, and dsoul anxiously bullshit around the band’s equipment. Tossed in a pile at the front of the yard, they appear more to be tending to a musical garage sale than waiting for a bus full of fans to pickup the band and take them to the show. The early winter night makes the darkness feel old and the minutes pass even slower as the wait for the classically late Warrior to march on. Moments plug away.
Just as dsoul gives up a bit more on a quick arrival and cracks another Heineken, the familiar roar is heard in the distance. It is the exhaust note of the dinosaur bus herself, the lovely Warrior.
“There she is!!!” shouts dsoul at the group and runs back into the house to grab the rest of the group not excited enough to be waiting out on the road.

The bus comes to a hissing stop and everybody, outside and in, begins jumping in excitement. The driver, a young tall lanky guy with long blond hair, hops out the huge swinging door and helps open the bottom storage by unlatching and swinging up the doors.
Guitars, amps, tables, drums, were all quickly carefully loaded in as everybody piles into the bus. A few people (a guy and a girl) came out to greet Woodrose and the rest, adding more people to hurry.
All on, loud cheers and laugher are had as the back DJ keeps the beat heavy. Off the bus lurks as many fall and sway with it. Beers, booze, and what-not are had.
“I just want everyone to have some,” said the guy giving out the shrooms.

The Warrior pulls up a block South of the Larimer Lounge and all the excitement, equipment, booze, and confusion spill out. The riders grab a piece of gear each while dsoul scores a strip and a third of some fiery L at a friendly price. The psychedelic drip-feed has been turned on and the slow build to fully realized travel through time and space begins.
Mercuria, the first act on the bill sings soulfully through, her Viking Warrior face paint and groping her guitar while breaking every guy in the crowd’s heart. Her solo performance ends as dsouls struts back to the Warrior to check on the party stoking up inside. Things are definitely heating up and after making sure that his eyes don’t deceive him when he sees damn near everyone munching shrooms, he makes his way off and then on to the show. The dead stylings of the Widow Bane are now on. Not Grateful Dead mind you. The pissed, bitter dead, stuck in a horrible waltz of Cajun spells is more like it.
Family members begin to show up after this set and get warmed up by Tailed Rags’ hard stomping brutality. The drugs are doing their job, the band is doing theirs, and the night has reached the status of full primed. Johnny Woodrose could take it or leave it all right here.

The Johnny Woodrose and the Broken-Hearted Woodpeckers’ show is a melted psychedelic shit show of great rock energy. A great time!
Trying to solidify afterwards in the low sitting couch on the bus makes Johnny feel distant from his reality. A foggy cave of red velvet couch is hugging him, turning into slick black leather with long vibrant brunette hair and moist lips. A crashing in the Warrior’s door and dsoul is laughing fallen on the stairs.

The wheels are soon turning and the Warrior is devouring the highway. dsoul is in the rear of the bus harassing the DJ who is harassing his equipment. Neither of them know “what the fuck is going on anymore,” or who had turned the computer screen into a swirling box of glowing hieroglyphs. They are getting deep into this one.

The rocking of the bus encourages Johnny to get up and join the crazy madness at the rear of the bus. Stumbling over every person, couch, and table on the way there, the cute girls sway his way but so does the bus turn and Johnny falls back onto the wood bar/bench. dsoul is there.
“We still got more of that acid,” he smiles handing over to Johnny a small piece of paper

“This is what I’m talking about, man,” dsoul shouts to Johnny over the roar of the engine behind them. “We’re in some cosmic shit right now!”
They sit there on the wooden bench in the back of the bus, their grins are wild with euphoric sensory overload. Neither of them knew where the fuck they were, they only happen to be on a bus.

Swinging from the open emergency hatch, Johnny is able to hold his shit together better than he feels. The world is spinning, everyone’s world is swaying as the bus bounds forward, forward forever. Even on acid the trip back to Boulder from Denver is taking a long ass time. The driver hasn’t driven the Warrior in a bit and is excited to venture.
dsoul comes down from peering out the emerg hatch and says, “Holy shit dude, we’re in the hills of Boulder.”
The dancers encourage Johnny to take a look from the roof. He waves them off at first but gives in their second offer. Not only poking his head out, Johnny jumps up outside and sits on top, his whole body exposed. The dancers below hold his ankles as the mystic moonlit night, the smooth incline of the mountains, the pine trees ghostly, and the fatty white roof of a coach bus trailing threw it all.

The world suddenly inverted, dsoul is seeing his feet again an unfamiliar backdrop: the ceiling of the bus. It crosses his mind that this may be troubling. No. This is better. This is new. Mmmmm, delicious newness. It crosses his mind that this is maybe weird. Yes. It is time to turn pro, amplify the madness.

The DJ is in the very back, sloppily up-chucking music onto the airwaves and he can’t wipe the stupid, open mouthed, smile off his face. He’d been here countless times before, but tonight is a pinnacle moment of taking his enjoyment of every aspect of the experience into his own hands.
Everyone learns to dance with the motion of the bus, but tonight the driver is tearing ass with the best tact for passenger agitation and even the well balanced passengers are succumbing to flagrant use of their fellow passengers as impact cushions.
While the Detroit Diesel 8V71 engine is kicking true as ever, its sound resonating most clearly through the door to the pisser, located a humbling twelve inches from the impromptu DJ booth that he is trying so poorly to remain appended to.

Johnny tumbles and cartwheels over two couches and slams his shin into the last couch’s wood armrest. dsoul is doing his own thang, enjoying himself by pouring a beer on his face. Johnny crawls over and accidentally kicks the DJ in the back. On the floor, Dust on the seat laughs and encourages Johnny to “swim!”
Johnny does his best at a forward breaststroke, when he finds a lost Avery beer under one of the seats. A golden find when beer is all drunk and the drugs are tripping everybody out. This ride has gone on forever and forever more.

“You guys wanna get weird,” dsoul asks with more than a little crazy in his eyes. Before anyone can respond, he’s wiping clear the entire surface of the table with an outstretched arm, with a jangley-clatter, a baker’s dozen of half filled bottles and cups fly onto the floor.
This is enough to prompt a small group of riders to catch the next stop, ASAP. But it is also enough to get another group excitedly shouting. Fully realize space-time distortion. Bitchin!

Blackout blurring of time and space and the two cosmic friends are huddled around the bong in the magical garage. No lighter until the friends return with the candy.
Stolen firewood and the heat embraces the sunrise. Again, who knows what happened but they head off to the Hill for breakfast.

Shouldn’t be driving. Neither of them should be driving. Or should they? It doesn’t matter. They aren’t driving. They are riding, galloping down the street, or rather up the hill, in Clyde. Clyde is a ’77 Chevy Suburban, formerly a micro-school bus for the school district, painted classic yellow, with rust trim. Shit, it shouldn’t be driving, errr, galloping either. Nonetheless, they are riding bareback, an’ a strategic rhythm on the accelerator combined with the resonant frequency of the loose parts and suspension actually make the yellow steed gallop.
And so they do, to the glee of a few turned-in on lookers, and ride right into a sloppy parking stop outside Thunberbird burgers.

Making a scene of greasy beer smoke bodies of hungover, the cosmic friends are doing their natural thing: freaking out others. Up Baseline after eating, “to smoke this joint,” Johnny laughs. Peddle all the way to the floor and they might stall out. Around a steep hair-pin bend, the Landslide gains energy and powers up.
A couple more tight turns and the yellow suburban stalls.
“If it won’t turn over, it’s outta gas,” dsoul smiles.
It doesn’t turn over. “Good at breaking down,” dsoul has three five gallon gasoline tanks in the bed. Only one has gas in it.
They joke and shoot the shit as the truck gets a drink. The cars passing the steep road don’t stop to ask if they need help. The cosmic friends laugh at the cars at the top and relight the roach.
The roll down with the clutch out is exciting. “All the way to Denver!” they joke as they slow to a stop at the bottom of the hill. Put it in gear and they are off to the bus station. Down to Denver for Johnny to cosmically write with Pablo Francisco only to return to cosmically write with dsoul only to head out only to return only to leave.
A game. A life. The Cosmos.

+++

Slew-slew-slew-slew
Slewww-slew-slew-slew
Slew-lurp-bubble-pop
Slew-slew-slew-slew

Johnny looks around him but sees nobody. He thinks he’s overhearing a conversation. This little creek is making a lot of noise as the softly flowing stream rolls over the many shallow rocks.
Having just sparked the joint, Johnny is a little apprehensive about sitting on this tree next to the creek. It’s a nice spot where the tree grows toward the water horizontally, making a good sitting spot. Yet, the last time yesterday he was here a jogger ran by and said, “Smells good, man.” Simply not wanting to draw attention to himself is the reason for Johnny’s anxiety.
“It’s my spot, though,” Johnny thinks outloud while walking the dirt path of the greenbelt neighboring his boyhood suburb home. The past couple days he has found himself pondering amongst the creek and bare Fall trees.
The nomadic storyteller is the lost cosmic character that Johnny aspires to resurect. His white collar family, with the ideals of materials and income, has mixed understandings of what Johnny is doing.
“How can they understand if I, too, am still figuring it out?” Johnny asks the creek and listens carefully.

Lurp-lub-blup-lub
Lurp-lub-blup-lub
Lurp-lub-blup-love

The joint dies and Johnny takes the opportunity to move from his sitting tree and follow the creek upstream. Winding between sticks and trees, small patches of flattened yellow grass, and avoiding the snow/mud trail, Johnny keeps the creek close on his left.
“Love,” Johnny says after awhile. “Showing love connects those with others who love.” Smiling, Johnny keeps walking, his head up. The Colorado sun is shinning full through the trees and its heat has Johnny stop near a fallen tree to rest. The tree is bridging across the creek and Johnny sits on his side for a bit to relight the joint.
He puffs it a couple times and lets his mind open. Anxiety of leaving home, again, and with no real way of doing so, has led Johnny to ponder what he feels is worth trying: train hopping. He puffs again on the joint and listens to the creek slowly trying to break threw a beaver dam.

Bubble-bubble-blurp
Bubble-bubble-blurp
Bubble-bubble-believe

Waking from a trans, the joint has gone out. Johnny slips it into his pocket and walks up to the fallen tree. He looks down at the water and notices it isn’t too deep, maybe knee high. The tree has a wide trunk and stretches the full seven foot creek. Johnny stands on one end and finds it sturdy.
Taking a deep breath, Johnny inches his way over the creek with arms stretched out. Each step he makes sure is planted and balanced on the trunk before he moves onto the next step. He safely crosses with no trouble.
“Believe,” Johnny says hopping down and walking on, now with the creek on his right. “Believing in myself begins with taking that first step.”
Johnny walks off trail to a grassy spot where he knows the creek bends and the path does not lead to. Here he finds a fallen tree provided by a beaver and takes a seat near the water. Using a twig to hold the roach, Johnny lights and inhales.
Excitement of traveling fills Johnny with joy. He puffs on the roach and stares off at the nearby foothills of the Rockies. “Like mountains they are,” Johnny laughs and again listens to the creek.

Oolp-hase
Oolp-wemm
Oolp-hemm
Oolp-embrace

A deep breath of the cool Colorado air and Johnny stares up at the pale blue sky. He smiles as the sun warms his face.
“Embrace,” Johnny says sitting right there. “To embrace what’s going on around me, at this moment, is a gift.” He takes another deep breath and closes his eyes.


+++
The Fourth Cosmic Chapters
+++


CANADIAN RED

Pulling into Austin in the backseat of an old Toyota beater, listening to the bip bop of Spanish pop songs, the two Mexican hombres mistook my long hair for a female’s and were disappointed to find my grizzled beard in exchange. Non-the-less, they took me where I was fixed on going.
This is my second time entering the clean streets of the Texas capital, revisiting lost memories down Sixth Street. Not much had changed since my initial introduction to the kind-hearted, well-mannered folk of the South. Always easier entering a city you know.
It is a Friday and I am jacked right up to play some tunes for the young audience of the college student scene. Maybe I’ll make a decent dollar. Who knows?
The sun went down and the lights went up. The kids rolled in, and drinks went down. Everyone chasing their dreams on a coat string. It is colder than I expected and I signed out early, making a little jingle for my pockets, but nothing to be proud of.
“Manana,” I tell myself convincingly all the way.
Manana became the theme over the next week, as I found myself not so enthused to be in front of a crowd; a lack of confidence with a stutter step on the side.
“What’s the problem here?” I say to myself. “You’re a music man. This is your job. Pull it together! Get out there and be somebody!!”
But all these methods of self taunting and peerless pressure failed to motivate in any sort of direction.
When you aint feeling it, you aint feeling it. Best to just deal as it is. I can’t shake the feeling of self analyzing, pondering the path in which I set upon, many questions and answers, justifications and inspirations, circling my thoughts.
I fell into a pattern of homelessness, soup kitchens and handouts, camping out in nature reserves, randomly commenting about the weather to perfect strangers, and searching for the strength to keep at it with a smile and the know how of better days to come.
This was supposed to be the highlight of my southern route; singing my soul and spreading good vibes. New Orleans was great. Florida was great. Louisiana was a breeze. Why the sudden trip up in the heart of Texas?
Many highs and lows and in-betweens came my way. I just try to stay positive, knowing this is the best way to handle one’s business.
What I lack the most was human interaction. Real connections worth loving beyond everyday mannerisms. To be heard and understood by your own kind. This is what drives the children to sing and give praise. When we relate in harmony to the world, the days tend to turn a little easier.
So there I am, my head turned sideways, standing on some corner of downtown sandy brown Austin, wondering where my day would take me. When up pops one of my own kind going by the name of Johnny Opium.
We aren’t even through with introductions when a lady clamming from Arizona invited us both for a drink and a conversation. Some swank bar we’d probably never dream to set foot in again.
Exchanging “Why the Fuck Not” glances, we take on the day for what it’s worth.

JOHNNY OPIUM

The night of the Denver Cosmic Party started a stretch of a week and half of below twenty degrees weather. Even during the days with the sun out it didn’t reach above freezing. With chapter three written and celebrated, I no longer had to rush around on city buses headed to and from Denver, Boulder, Fort Collins. Although it is already December and I am anxious to get back traveling, I interpret this cold weather to be a sign to relax and enjoy downtown Denver.
Being alone in a city can be a powerful thing. Manifestations are rampant when positive vibrations are flowing. The food venders are talkative with love of their small big-town city, street musicians are energetically singing:

Amen, Amen
When I get to the other side I won’t work no more
Amen, Amen
When I get to the other side I won’t pray no more

,crusty kids asking for something to fill their pipe, and I slip into a dive bar for a noon-time drink.
Sitting at the bar with my Fat Tire in hand, I feel stressed on how I am to leave Denver. The cold is making it dangerous to be out on the highway or in the rail yard.
“I’m siking myself out…” I mumble to myself and take a sip.
“It’s important to keep believing,” an old man two bar stools down says.
“What?” I look over at him unexpectedly cold.
The old man smiles and says, “When was the last time you talked with your parents?”
“It much be weeks by now,” I sigh.
He slides over two quarters across the bar. “Give them a call. I think they’ll like to hear your voice.”
I take a gulp from my glass and sigh again. Picking up the quarters, I walk to the back where the bartender says a pay phone is.
Happy to hear from me, my parents are also surprised I haven’t left town yet. (Considering Denver is my hometown, my parents live here, and I said I was leaving weeks ago.)
“The cold weather is either hurting me or helping me,” I say into the phone. “Right now I can’t tell which.”
Inaudible muffling is heard, something that happens when I’m on speaker phone and the parents are talking amongst themselves. The noise subsides and only my father’s voice becomes clear. “I’d have to say luck is with you because your uncle is driving to Houston in two days. I’m sure he’d love to bring you along.”
Excitement and relief overcome me. I make arrangements to call back later and confirm. A sigh of relief is heard from my parents end for they worry. Not only happy to hear I’m not out in the cold, they are also happy this time I have a safe ride to my destination of choice: Austin, Texas.
“I feel the same,” I think before I send my love and say goodbye.
Back at the bar, the old man is gone. I finish my beer and start the cold walk back to a friend’s apartment.

The two day drive from Denver to Austin is good in that I get to keep my uncle and aunt company. They are actually driving to central Florida but are stopping in Houston for a few days to see friends.
They drop me off at the University of Texas football stadium for, “I don’t know where else,” I smile.
This is even more awkward because I tell them I am meeting up with friends. I don’t know anyone in Austin and have no where to go. But I tell a lie to not make them worry.
“Huh,” I say while watching the truck drive away. I light up a joint of some Colorado bud Pablo Francisco gave me as a going away present and start walking. Feeling buzzed off half the joint, I put it out and save the rest for later.
I ask anyone and everyone I pass, “Where a student bar may be.” Eventually I make it to The Hole in the Wall on “the drag” near the University. It is closed so I pop in the pizzeria next door. At the bar, I tell the bartenders my story and they write me a list of things to do and see while in town.
The next couple nights alternate with me sleeping outside (occasionally getting rained on) and meeting some friendly people who let me crash on their couches.
One afternoon I am playing my harmonica downtown on Sixth Street when two girls walk by and strike up conversation. They invite me for some drinks.
“But we should get them from a store because Virginia can’t get into bars.”
I ask Virginia how old she is and I find out the answer is seventeen. So we buy the beer and get in the car to go drinking. In some random parking lot south of the river we finish a twelve pack of Natural Ice.
It has been dark for hours. Before we head home (they invite me to sleep in their car for the night) we all pop a mysterious blue pill. I’m feeling lite bodied and my vision has trails. The older girl is driving and she is driving recklessly. We could or could not have ran over a curb, but red and blue lights are now flashing behind us.
The car gets impounded, the seventeen year old is told to call her parents, and as me, “If you don’t leave right now,” Officer Vest warns me, “then I’m giving you a Public Intoxication ticket.”
A demand of the officers’ badge numbers and I am off down some street in some part of town I have no idea of anything. And my head is ten miles high.
I find a small creek near a condo complex and bunker down until the morning.

This next morning is brutally cold. My wool blanket is not helping but it is keeping me covered near the creek. If I didn’t have my heavy jacket, I’m sure I wouldn’t have gotten to sleep at all. A sniffing nudge wakes me to the cloudy morning. I smile as I watch the waving tail of a golden retriever trotting off. Re-covering my head to try and get a little more sleep, no more than a little time, a gentleman in jeans and hiking boots coughs me awake. On my stomach, I pull down the cover and smile sideways. He says something about “being hungry.” I nod my head and he leaves a plastic grocery bag and a metal to-go coffee cup.
“Thank you,” I sleepishly call back.
Slowly stirring up, I stretch and take a look at the gifts. The coffee cup is warm. I take a sip. The coffee has milk and sugar in it. Inside the bag is a plethora of food: a zip-lock bag of Oreo’s and chocolate peanut butter, another bag of sausages and salami, crackers, two bananas, a cup of yogurt, a juice box and a bottle of water, and in tin foil is an egg and bacon sandwich.
There is enough food to eat now and bring some for later. In south Austin from a reckless night of drinking with two recently met girls, a DUI has separated me from them and I had to gorilla myself a spot until the next morning. “What the fuck!?” I think recalling last night.
Now I have a full stomach and am walking towards downtown. The tall buildings are misty in the far distance.
“This walk is going to me take all day!” I sigh while walking a frontage road. Using a bridge to cross a highway, I find myself weaving from sidewalk to sidewalk.
“Why the fuck not,” I think and stick out my thumb. Only briefly and a silver pick-up truck pulls over and throws open the passenger door. I run up to it and jump in. A young guy with a goatee is driving and downtown is where he’s heading. The twenty minute ride we talk about travel and the good nature of people.
I leave him a copy of COSMIC TRAVELERS as he leaves me at Congress and something.
“Huh,” I smile and start walking down the street, not thinking much of anything.
I turn a corner heading one way and bump into a cosmic man with rucksack and guitar case.
“What’s good, man?” I ask him
“Come over to this side of the building,” he smiles, “out of the wind.”
We step over and before anything much more is said, a plump red haired woman in black dress and blouse bounds up to us.
“Are you guys in a band?” she giggles.
“Well… um…” we both respond while looking questionably even towards each other.
“Come in for a drink,” she smiles already leading us to the door of the restaurant, “I’m drinking Colorado Bulldogs.”

COSMIC TRAVELING

The two cosmic travelers are now two cosmic friends. In the fine dinery they enter with their rucksacks and heavy jackets. Toward the bar the red headed woman leads them, parading past the doorman, maitre d, waitstaff, and tables of fancy folk in their starched suits and ties, their hair pulled tight and their faces made up just right.
Plowing threw, they don’t care who’s looking. They throw their things down at some bar stools and hop on smiling like good old boys. The lady happily waves over the frightened bartender and orders a round of drinks she calls Colorado Bulldogs: Kaloola, vodka, coke cola, and a liquor.
This is Canadian Red and Johnny Opium in Downtown Austin. Their drinks get served and they cheers to new friends.
“Now go wash up in the restroom,” the woman tells Johnny while picking some fuzz off his new growth beard. “You’re too pretty to be dirty.”

Leaving Red and the chubby red head to their separate conversation, the misses begins to spout off about her life in every direction. The bits which Red puts together is that she is a struggling bi-polar who just got out with her daddy’s credit card and in dramatic fashion took refuge in Austin till, “Daddy and myself are on better speaking terms,” she says.
When the obvious question is asked of why she pluck two young vagabonds off the street to feed booze to, she elegantly voiced, “I go where I’m needed and do what I feel is right.”
Red couldn’t drop the idea of secret agendas in a corner of some hotel suite. He’d been warned time and again that women in Texas are a whole different breed.

The drinks get drunk and paid for with Daddy’s credit card. As they leave, the men at the door are friendly with smiles and nods.
On a mission to pick up a ring from a jeweler, the woman has the two cosmic travelers linger by the corner; Johnny smoking a blueberry cigar Kimberly offered.
With her gold and diamond ring polished and cleaned, they are off to find a Greenpeace man who she earlier gave a harmonica. A couple blocks down and the group of three run into Brian, Greenpeace Canvaser, who isn’t who Kim is looking for.
“These guys are a traveling band and we’re spending the afternoon together,” Kimberly smiles to Brian.
“Cool!” Brian grins, “Well, if you need a place to stay, my house has a couch.”
Before the two can say something, Kimberly speaks in, “That would be great! Let me get your number and we can organize a time.”
“Are you their agent?” Brian jokes.
Kimberly giggles, “Only for today.”
They say their goodbyes and are off on a Kimberly Mission.

The theme of the day is random enough. Kimberly drives the boys around in a supped-up Dodge Charger, creating a handful of schedules and not sticking to one.
First to the local community market to promote her favorite products while searching for a granola eating hippie who’d be able to fix the travelers with a free shower. Not finding him, they are off to her favorite dinner spot: Pizza by the Slice.
Disappointed by the lack of service, that being the shop is closed on Tuesdays, they are off again.
Ah shucks and now they’re off on “never heard of this place before,” “let’s pull in here,” blind eye u-turns, dodgy and dismissing the angry honks from drivers, she breaks out of their route and cuts that plan off.
The two travelers exchange sideways glances which continue their bright blessed attitudes that wins them over. The boys embrace every opportunity, not denying a thing that comes their way. There is an unspoken agreement between them: Fuck It! Why Not? Although this vibrant lady clearly has her own issues, she just needs some company to make the day a little more enjoyable.

She used to live in this neighborhood where they stop at a liquor store and a Whataburger.
“Gifts to bring to an old friend’s house,” she says.
They drive into a condo complex and bring the gifts to a door. A gay man answers, completely surprised to see Kimberly.
“She’s the last person I thought to see at my front door,” he admits to the two while she is in the bathroom.
They drink orange sangria provided by the host and also a beer Kimberly bought for the travelers. A meal of burgers and fries and booze does eventually overstay one’s welcome. Kimberly becomes anxious, constantly offering things from her purse: vitamin c packets, pens and papers, empty harmonica boxes.
They get back in her car and she drops them off back downtown. “To find it on your own,” she is now saying.
The travelers thank her for everything and get out of the car. Red knows of a coffee house for them to collect their thoughts and off down the road they head.

The two of them are surprised and satisfied with the making of the day. The inner desire to squeeze it dry, to get their worth out of it, they figure it out over a cup of joe. They built a bond over the notion of riding high. The coffee kicks in and off they go. Red promises a joint and Johnny picks up some tall boys from the store.
The night is taking shape. With the can do and the know how, the two walk down Sixth Street in good spirits.
“Well, lookie lookie,” Red jokes with Johnny. “Here comes two lovelies.”
What’s this? Dear Johnny knows them from the night before.
Virginia, a young blond, kissing and flirting with Johnny, is proving herself to be seventeen: showing no signs of caring about what kind of charges the two boys could be up against. Granted, the two boys aren’t showing signs of caring either.
Virginia’s friend is slightly older and supposed to be acting as her guardian. But the fact of only having twenty two years under her belt and accompanying Virginia to local drinking spots hardly supports her title.
“Ah hell…” the two travelers laugh at each other and away they go for adventure.

“I thought I’d never get to see you again,” Virginia gazes up into Johnny’s eyes. They are on the upper floor of a bar playing pool, drinking their brought in Mickies.
“Holy fucking hell!” Johnny is thinking to himself. “How in hell do I get myself mixed up with these girls two nights in a row!?”
The previous night Johnny drank a twelve pack with the girls, which turned into popping a mysterious pill, and eventually a DUI was served.
Now what Johnny is doing is dangerously illegal. The beer is drunk up after one game of pool and they leave the bar. Outside Virginia is begging Johnny to take her with him.
“Ooooh… no!!” Johnny smiles. “Give me your number and I can call you.”
She writes it down and he kisses her goodbye.
“What the fucking shit!” the two cosmic travelers are laughing and scurrying away.
“Let’s keep up the adventure,” Red laughs.
They cross the street only to run into Sara, a cosmic bartender, and her roommate. The girls invite the two to the Jackolope for drinks, which, of course, they accept.

The two are hopped up like school kids on pixie sticks, reaching into their reluctant pockets to pull up some beer money. Spun up on a full day of drinking and jointing, the conversation barrels off, laughs are had, and the game of boy and girl is played out.
All numbers of the party are in high spirits, when Sara suggests departure. As quickly as the girls came, they are gone.
“They moved out fast,” Red notices. “That was so fast I bet they come back.” With a know-it-all smile, he takes a swill of his two dollar beer.
Johnny voices his doubts but sure enough, the roommate wanders back.
“We had a roommate discussion and you guys can stay with us tonight.”
Why the fuck not? the two travelers look at each other.
Away they stroll a hustle and a roll, skipping across town to shoot some sticks and down down down some whisky and beer.
Odds are favored and tall tales are handed out. Sara is out for trouble and the roommate is digging the vibe. The rosie cheeks and dirty blond attitude of Sara are handed to Johnny, while Red deals with the continuously curious roommate; backing each other all the way.
Last call comes around smacking them by surprise. Back out in the Austin cold but on their way to a warm house. Home, the girls load a bowl and turn on Tom Waits.
On the spin of a cent piece, the night has finally caught up with everyone. Heated words for never a good reason, “You can Sos” and “Why Nots” are subject of “possibilities of this world.” All spilt out on the floor, these words leave a sour taste in the mouths of every person.
Johnny apologizes and passes out in a bamboo chair. The roommate gives into the hour and says she has work in the morning. Sara invites Red into her room to “better hear Tom Waits’ proper poetic sound.”
In goes Red.
The mattress is hard and Sara isn’t truly wanting to give into temptation as much as she first believed. Unable to make his move full-heartedly, out goes Red.
A night on the couch. Ah hell.

Waking up in a haze and with a puppy in the lap, Johnny is in hell and heaven. Sara is loading a bowl and preparing some oatmeal. The two travelers are in heaven.
Red hops in a shower as Johnny helps cut up green apples and two bananas. A quick shower for Johnny and a final cigarette with Sara before the two travelers start their walk downtown. Here is the first down-time opportunity the two get to have an insightful conversation together. Talking about believing in the cosmos and fulfilling one’s personal adventure is deep. The hour long walk passes quickly. Haggard Beats.
“This is the first time we actually get to know each other,” Red smiles.
Travelers have similar reason to travel: adventure and learning. But all travelers find growth in their own way. Combining forces, Johnny and Red’s positive energy is still powerful.
It’s close to four o’clock and the Salvation Army serves lunch for the needy. The travelers receive a warm meal of meat, beans, and potatoes. A joint bought out front for two dollars is smoked down by the river. Bellies full and mind high, Red pulls out his guitar and plays some rambling folk rock.
“I ain’t living no dead man’s dreams,” Red signs.
They laugh and joke and sign and dance until they feel it’s again time to roam. Up on Sixth Street and they bump into Greenpeace Brian. He gets off work in an hour and offers his couch for the night.
“I’ve got food at the house, a sack of weed on its way, and I’m planning on picking up some beers,” Brian smiles.
The two cosmic travelers are honored with the offer and accept. They walk around downtown shooting the shit and praising their happiness.

Tilting their minds on the end of a roach, the two eventually catch up with their new friend Brian and a fellow Canadian traveler who is also spending the night at the house.
The four strong become five with Brian’s roommate Alex, then six with another, Gabe the drummer, and seven, eight, nine then into who knows who, all playing guitars, drums, bass, cowbells, anything that can be hit and make a noise. Chatting, drinking beer, living young and wild, is making the world free.
One more night of “Why the Fuck Nots,” wrapped in “Slap Happy Get Goings.” Tomorrow’s no worry for they live in the now. Red is in touch again or so it goes.
“What’s worth our time if not to create and be in our own,” he cheerses Johnny.
The two plan to collaborate their artistic efforts to catch the night they refused to say no, when they deliberately took it all for what it’s worth.

+++

“Are you going to put this in your book?” Gabe the drummer asks Johnny with a smile. They are joking in the back seat while Gabe’s boss and boyfriend flirt in the front. All four are returning from one of many free concerts the city of Austin is hosting during its “Free Music Week”.
Lauren came over to the apartment to smoke some weed, and although she was going to invite them to the concert anyway, upon hearing it is Johnny’s last night in town, she is insistent they come out.
“The only thing,” Lauren coughs and passes the joint (a Dutch joint Johnny rolled. “Been too long since I’ve rolled one,” Johnny laughed.). “The only thing is it might be an above age only show.”
Gabe tells people he is nineteen when really he is only eighteen. His long hair and goatee, plus hanging out with “of age” people does get Gabe in the show with no questions.
“If you just do what you want,” Johnny puts his arm around Gabe’s shoulder once they enter, “and you do it with confidence, then anything is possible.”
Emo’s, Johnny is told, is a famous club in Austin. Two main stages and a large outdoor patio, everywhere is packed and psychedelic rock music is heard all over.
Double fisting sixteen ouncers of Lone Star, plus joints deluxe, Johnny is becoming psychedelic himself. Wandering over to the pizza parlor in the back of the patio, Johnny finds a cute dark hair girl sitting on the counter smoking a cigarette.
“Is this the cool person’s section?” Johnny jokes to the girl. She smiles and asks him his name and what he does.
“You traveled to Eastern Europe and wrote a book about it!?” she becomes excited.
A customer comes up to the counter and the girl does a spin and hops behind the counter. “Don’t go anywhere,” she eyes Johnny. “I want to talk to you some more.”
Johnny bums a cigarette off someone while he waits. The girl returns and hops a seat back on the counter. She holds out her hand, gesturing he share a toke. He does and she inhales smoothly. “I find you interesting,” she smiles while she exhales. “I’m stuck behind here while you’re off exploring.”
“Out of all these people,” Johnny turns and waves to the hundreds of people behind him. “Out of all these people and you want to talk with me!?”
“Most people don’t pursue what they really want,” she says inhaling one more time from the cigarette, then putting the butt out. “And I’m guilty too. So tell me, where will you go next?”
“I’ve been trying to cross borders for months now and only recently have I been given my opportunity. I’m heading to Mexico.”
“Mexico!? Where in Mexico?”
“I guess I’ll find out when I get there.”
A group of customers comes up to the counter and the girl has to hop back over.
“I’ll come back for a slice,” Johnny smiles to the girl. She raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth to say something, but he is gone and she is back at work.
Again finding Gabe and the group, they hand Johnny a fresh beer and rock out to the music. Once this band is done, being the band Lauren wanted to see, they all are fairly drunk and agree to head back to Gabe’s to smoke the vaporizer. On the car ride home, Gabe asks if Johnny will put this in his book.
“I’m not always documenting,” Johnny lies. “I’m merely an observer.”

Canadian Red has been gone for weeks. Everything Johnny has pursued to accomplish in a new city (make real connections, meet a cosmic person to create adventures and write with, tap into the culture of a city) all these things Johnny has been able to accomplish before the end of his first week in Austin.
“The only thing that would keep me,” Johnny has told himself at every destination, “the only thing would be a beautiful woman.”
It’s true. There are beautiful women everywhere. And everywhere Johnny has been he has wanted to stay longer for that exact reason.
“I just don’t want to be your Austin chick,” Johnny’s beautiful brunette has told him.
“You’re not my Austin chick,” Johnny rebuttals, “you’re my chick.” Her jealousy of the other girls Johnny has written about, matched with her uncertainty of his travel vagabond lifestyle, the combination has led her to say time and time again, “I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be bringing you home to my apartment.”
Her belief Johnny is using her keeps her skeptical. Taking it slow to prove he “doesn’t need her” therefore “isn’t using her” has gone well and Johnny is able to make a real connection with her.
Driving to work the morning after Johnny’s twenty-fifth birthday, she says to him, “You’ll leave town without calling me, won’t you?” Having not thought of doing so, Johnny now knows this is the exact thing he must do.

The holiday week has put a lot of stress on Johnny. For a week straight he has woken on a different stranger’s couch, given his gratitude, and began his walk back downtown. From east and west, north and south, Johnny has stepped back out into the unknown, located the tall building in the distance, and began, from the beginning, another day of manifestations.
Christmas Eve is cold and windy. Having spent the whole day walking around, Johnny has found himself on “the drag”. Popping in to the Mellow Mushroom for shelter and a beer, this is the same pizzeria he popped in on his first day in Austin. The cute waitress remembers him even though it has been weeks prior.
“The travel writer,” she eyes him coyly.
“Yes,” Johnny smiles. “And Melissa is it?”
“It is,” she blushes. “A seat at the bar?” and she waves the way.
“A seat at the bar,” he smiles again, lugging his rucksack with help from his legs and tossing it at a bar stool. Taking off his heavy jacket, herring-bone blazer, then Pure Rasta hoodie, he takes a deep sigh as Melissa places a tall can of Lone Star in front of him.
“This first one’s on me,” she smiles.
This time it’s Johnny who blushes. Melissa leaves him be so he can read the Onion. Unable to care about the reading due to Melissa’s bright smile she flashes his way every time she comes or goes from the kitchen, Johnny smiles to himself remembering how on the first day he met Melissa, she spent much of her shift quickly filling orders so she could return to converse with him at the bar.
Before he left that first day, Melissa wrote out a list of “Must Go-To” bars in Austin. The Hole in the Wall, the Jackalope, and the Flying Saucer are the three out of the ten she stared. She also included a couple bars in New Orleans thinking the South is what he was referring to when he said he wanted to go south.
Now again, she is wanting to help.
“You can’t be alone on Christmas,” she smirks. “Steven!” she calls back in the kitchen. A young man comes out holding a gray dish bin. He sets it down and comes over to the bar. “This is Johnny,” she introduces. “He’s a friend of mind and doesn’t have a place to stay tonight.”
Without hesitating, Steven offers his couch. Johnny is happy to accept.
The bar is closing early, around three, Johnny is told, “and if you wait the half an hour,” Steven’s rosie cheeks glow, “then we can pop over to the bar next door for some drinks.”
The bar next door is The Hole in the Wall, a bar Steven can get into; being under age. Melissa has given Steven some money for the first rounds. Out of such gratitude, Johnny gives her a COSMIC TRAVELERS.
Whiskey Cokes warm them for the long walk to Steven’s on the east side. “The only condition for staying at my place,” Steven says along the walk, “the only condition is you have to smoke from the four and a half foot bong.”
They get to the house on high spirits from talk of cosmic creativity. Steven likes to graffiti beer bottles. After meeting the housemates, Johnny is introduced to the Christmas Tree – a string of white lights wrapped around the tall bong. They smoke and all are able to milk and clear.
Talk of Cosmic Travelers and Traveling Beard, Johnny is happy to share his books and stories.
“I love the beard idea,” Taylor, one housemate, says. “I enjoy growing a good beard myself.”
Having brought a second edition of the book to give to a special person, Johnny offers it to Taylor along with a COSMIC TRAVELERS. Taylor offers to buy it, which Johnny refuses.
“If anything,” Johnny says, “I only accept donations.”
Taylor is eager to pay and reaches for his wallet. Giving Johnny four two dollar bills, Johnny smiles and says, “Welp, who wants to go to the liquor store?” They all laugh and agree. The house buys a bottle of whiskey and Johnny, with his donated money, buys a twelve pack of Lone Stars.
They merrily drink in the holiday and fall asleep blackedout. Upon waking, the house has been visited by Santa Clause for tagged beer bottles, forty ouncers, and broken pieces of plywood are waiting under the Tree/Bong.
The house is stirring with delight and they all have Irish coffees and smoke the Christmas Tree. With their own Christmas plans, Johnny does not want to intrude and again give his thanks before heading out to the unknown.
Walking down east Twelfth Street, the daylight reveals the poor neighborhood around him. Johnny smiles to the elderly black people occasionally sitting on benches. One man waves him over and informs him of a free Christmas brunch a church is hosting down the way. Johnny thanks the man and continues on his way, smiling on his manifestation of something to eat.

Birthday celebrations last for three days straight. “It’s my twenty-fifth!!” Johnny exclaims to everybody he meets. Beers and shots are had. Joints and cigarettes are smoked. No different than any other day, but another excuse none-the-less.
“It’ll be a shame to leave so early after making such great connections,” Johnny confesses to Gabe on day two. “But moving on is inevitable. I’ll stick around for the New Year and then I must be off.”
Day three, December twenty-ninth, Johnny celebrates birth with “his Austin chick”. Her uncertain questioning of Johnny’s lifestyle, at first was cute, is now annoying.
“I just want to enjoy life,” Johnny tells her after another round of beers, “to enjoy life and not scrutinize it.”
Smoking is aloud inside at the microbrewery, Lovejoy’s, and the old men at the bar are joking around with Johnny, so not even her cynicism can harm him.
Back to her place they end up and she harms him now more but the opposite.
Finding a disk golf course on his walk back downtown the next morning, Johnny joins some hippy frolfers in a couple holes. They smoke him up and he wins a hole or two. When the course begins to loop back, Johnny leaves them on his quest.
A coffee and a read at the Hideout and Johnny calls up Gabe to, “see waz up!”
“Cosmic, man,” Gabe laughs through the pay phone line. “I’m downtown running errands. I’ll meet you outside the Hideout in fifteen.”
Johnny heads back to the coffee shop, lights a cigarette, and sits down to play his harmonica until his friend arrives.

New Years is crazy drunkenness. House parties and raves and Sixth Street shenanigans leaves Johnny hungover for days after. A free concert helps clear his head and the next day he finds himself at the Austin Greyhound asking the woman behind the counter, “What’s the next bus to Mexico?”
“Mexico!?” she asks shocked.
“Mexico,” Johnny smiles.
Some holiday money is helping Johnny travel in style. The ticket woman pulls out a map of Mexico and asks, “Any place in particular?”
“Some place well past the boarder and along the gulf coast.”
“Lets see,” the woman smiles. “It looks like there’s Tampico, Veracruz, um…”
“Tampico,” Johnny agrees. He pays the seventy-five dollars for the ten hour ride and goes to the nearby liquor store for snacks and to make a Faderade.
Walking back to the bus station, Johnny is thinking about his next adventure. “Gotta keep it cosmic,” he laughs to himself. “Gotta keep it cosmic.”

+++
The Cosmic Epilogue
+++


In the middle of the marketplace in Centro Tampico, tucked away down some alley where merchants are selling everything and anything (watches, bracelets, hammers, gears, wrenches, sneakers, high-heels, flat-tops, old sport music fashion magazines, DVDs, CDs, t-shits, jeans, and metals this, plastics that) the merchants selling these items spread out on blankets and on top of crates, down this alley between two streets where poultry (de-feathered chickens hung on hooks), meats (cow and pig ribs, legs, thighs, and heads), vegetables (lettuce, tomatoes, celery), fruits (oranges, bananas, limes), and nuts (peanuts, walnuts, pistachios), all these foods and more sold in little tile shops exposed and crammed next to each other, but down this alley between the food vendors and right along where the independent miscellaneous vendors are, Johnny finds himself slowly walking along on this late evening with his rucksack strapped on his back.
A not-so attractive but young Mexican girl eyes him and says in practiced English, “I’ll fuck you for free,” Johnny keeps on walking with a silly grin. Having only arrived to the city more than an hour ago, Johnny is seeking a bar to slip in where he can gather his thoughts. A couple places seemed potential. They were distinguishable bars due to their white and blue two tone paint job and a large Corona decal. But Johnny kept walking to explore the market before it got dark. The sun has now been low behind the two story buildings for a bit now and the alleys are only growing darker. He comes up to a corner where tow old style swinging doors block the view inside some rowdy shuffling bar where laughter whooping and hollering is as loud as the Mexican music blaring out. Johnny doesn’t notice a two tone paint job but decides to go in anyway.
Taking off his rucksack and carrying it thigh level before he enters, Johnny slips between the two swinging doors and takes his first couple steps in. Inside, the small square room is loosely occupied with old and overweight locals. A few two-person wooden tables line the walls where old men laugh and clap over their Modelo cans, entertained with the middle aged couple twirling and shuffling in front of a young man playing an electric keyboard. The man whoops and “Eieeee”s into the microphone.
The short bar lines a wall to Johnny’s right and he takes a seat on a stool, tucking his rucksack underneath. The bartender is laughing and clapping with an overweight woman on the other end, so Johnny takes the opportunity to watch the entertainment.
Not knowing any Spanish, Johnny is able to eye the bartender who politely comes over after finishing a laugh with his friend.
“Corona, porfavor,” Johnny smiles.
“Corona!” the bartender smiles and slaps the counter.
Returning with the bottle and a small plate of sliced limes, the bartender is already back in conversation with his friend. He winks to Johnny, not asking for money right away.
Squirting in a lime and taking a fizzy sip, Johnny, with beer in hand, turns back to the dancers. Another couple has now joined the other and the keyboardist is hitting the high prinning notes and “Eieeeee”ing some more.
A fat man comes up to the bar and sits down at Johnny’s end. The bartender comes over without being waved and with a mischievous grin he shakes the man’s hand. The fat man nods his head and releases his hand, followed by bringing his hand up to his nose, taking a quick inhale, thrusting his head slightly back. Johnny takes a sip from his beer. The keyboardist hits some more high notes and whoops a cry while the dancers do a final shuffle before the music falls silent. All in the bar clap and laugh. One couple takes a seat while the other approaches the keyboardist.
Johnny turns in his seat to face the bar. The bartender and fat man are still conversing. The bartender, with elbow on the counter and a small baggie in his hands, is not worried about Johnny seeing him flick the baggie a couple times to determine how much white powder remains inside. The music starts back up again.
Smiling, Johnny holds up his beer slightly to salute and takes a sip. The bartender smiles back, places the baggie on the counter in front of the fat man (who leaves it in plain view), and come up to Johnny for behind the bar. He pulls out a rolled cigarette and pops it in his mouth.
“Marijuana,” he smiles with attempted English pronunciation. “Smoke?” he eyes Johnny.
“Si, si,” Johnny smiles back. “Es muy bueno.”
“Vamos,” the bartender waves and steps from behind the bar to the side corner. Johnny, with beer in hand, stands and follows. Lighting the joint and taking a couple quick puffs, he hands it to Johnny. Inhaling lightly, Johnny puffs twice and passes it back. The man puffs a couple more quick puffs and hand it back. A waitress comes up to the bar and the man has to return to work. Johnny tries to hand the joint back before he leaves but he puts up his hands and says, “No, tu. Tu!”
Puffing on the rest of the joint, Johnny is feeling good and smiles to a heavyset woman down along the wall. She is the only one paying attention to Johnny. She smiles back and approaches Johnny. Putting the roach in an ashtray and finishing his beer, Johnny turns toward the woman and stands up straight. The woman, without saying a word, grabs his hand and leads him to dance.
“Oh man!” Johnny says outloud to himself. “I can only wonder what is in store for me now!!”