Du kan ikke fortælle spillerne uden et scorecard>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 13

Before I go any further, I feel you should get to know the cast of characters along the way, at least thus far and who will show up in the next set of chapters. Not that you don’t know them already, but from my standpoint, it certainly will help you understand them a bit better. Besides, you just can’t tell a player without a scorecard, now can you?

Pedro Da Palma-bassist, lead throat and tour organizer>He’s the one person I stayed in contact with most, from the early days upon when we first met through YouTube all the way through now in person, here in Aarhus. He’s the one that did a lot of the footwork for setting up shows and interpreting & relaying messages back and forth between venues, band members and kept us all at an even-keel, for the most part. His disposition is a pleasant demeanor and truly one of the calmest Danes I ever have gotten to know.

Jacob Mulle Nansen-drummer and backing vocals>I did a lot a Skyping with him in the many months leading up to the tour and we had a lot of great conversations, so I thought. Took in a lot of background, learned a bit of language, learned a lot about the Clean Boys. Overall, his disposition can be a little rough around the edges and slightly abrupt, but what drummer isn’t?

Andrzej Morks-guitarist & backing vocals-family man, jazz guy, father of two daughters, but perhaps the most practical of them all, perhaps in terms of ideals. One of the most diverse guys I had met yet, but also one of the hardest drinkers and heaviest smokers I have ever known (apart from Pedro and Mulle)! And one of those guys that you’d want to get to know, especially at a party and there was certainly a lot of that going on in the early days before the actual tour began!

Kasper Hayes (AKA Baconslap Hayes)-when introduced to me, he called himself, “The Roadie From Hell,” the guy who “promised” to drink all your beer, take all your women and eat all your food. Took me a bit to get used to him, to grow on me, but a real gentleman in every sense of the word.

Karsten Lund-our tour driver. He drove the camper van for the lot of our tour, with the exception of Mulle a few times, but again the majority fell into the responsible hands of Karsten. Karsten taught me a few Danish customs, kept me from being arrested in Germany (but that comes later in the story), has the coolest Hammond B3-organ, works at a cool school and like Kasper, a true gentleman and a big, big heart of gold.

Cisco Gulløve-Safari Freakshow Adventure “official” photographer and temporary transplant from Brazil. Upon meeting him, his first words out of his mouth, were “US Bluff,” which translated into the United States is full of shit; not exactly a warm welcome to Denmark from him, no in fact, the tee shirt he wore to welcome me with, was one worthy that only a criminal mind could pull off. Outside of that, he was a friendly and frugally practical man.

Den Sorte Fane-friend to Clean Boys and a few others I met in the early days of the tour; a Food Not Bombs organizer, local Aarhus activist, especially May Day, punk rocker-also a hater/basher of the United States, but outside of that, he was truly a friendly guy!

Estrid Balslev-what can I not say about Estrid? Intense brilliant Danish performance artist who truly gave a damn about what she was doing in her work and made it work so others like myself who were “foreign,” got it pretty rapidly. Before, I flew over to Denmark, I studied Estrid extensively and intensely, mainly on YouTube, though I didn’t speak Danish, I watched the films she was in and was fascinated by her enunciation and movement. I kept up a correspondence with her shortly before I arrived, upon the suggestion of Pedro (I believe). She turned out to be a great friend and felt like a 2^nd mother to me (other than my own) and when we met, I felt the connection, almost instantly-a little cliché, I suppose, but it was true nonetheless.

Vitawrapmand (AKA Michael Persson)-poet and performance artist, the guy who wore more sausage in strategic and sensitive places on his body than I could ever consume on the whole of the tour! Wrapped himself up in Vita Wrap (Danish version of America’s cellophane), shrieked through a bullhorn with often hilarious witticisms and poetry. Danced and performed and made music with a female vinyl blow-up doll. Also the guy who published poems of mine in his collective Danish quarterly poetry magazine. Slam-danced & moshed with me the whole of the tour. All-around nice guy.

Frede Nielsen-Safari Freakshow Adventure record producer and funny guy-three days younger than my brother Benjy. Produced and engineered a few of the shows on the tour, specifically in Horsens and Viborg.

Okay, Fint Du Er Sådan En Guide, Du Kører Toget, Og Se Hvad Der Sker!>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 12

Down below the Copenhagen airport, I found my way to the nearest train station. As I waited, I noticed how different everything looked. Pretty obvious being in a different country I suppose. But I also noticed how empty the train station was too. A little too empty, I felt. So I asked someone, who in turn, informed me that the reason very few trains were going by, is because someone less than an hour before I arrived decided to jump in front of a train and kill himself!

Only recently, had I listened to a segment of the American TV program 60 Minutes, in which they reported that Denmark was the best place in the world to live in, because despite the world’s problems, that their disposition remained happy and content. This was not the case, I gathered, as I dragged my airport cart w/my bags across the railroad platform and waited for another train to board.

If you’ve never traveled in Europe, let alone Denmark, their trains are much like America’s Amtrak trains-extremely roomy, fast, but with a bit of an old world style-perhaps similar to old Pullman trains from America’s golden years of train traveling, in that, usually during late afternoon or evening, a man would come through every train car with a service cart, selling a variety of Danish foods, candies, newspapers and magazines.

We got as far as Korsor, when an announcement came over the loudspeaker that the train was stopping, due to mechanical failure. Mechanical failure, I thought. The train was working just fine! Someone, whom I asked, explained to me that since Denmark is surrounded by water that if the train had actually broken down within the tunnels that it would take several hours to fix. Upon learning this, I tried my phone to make a call, but it didn’t work and I slightly panicked until I asked a stranger if I could borrow hers. Once I had her phone, I called Pedro to tell him I was going to be approximately 3 hours late. It was already nearly 4pm. He said not to worry and they would be there waiting to collect me when I arrived in Aarhus.

I could tell, however, that I was getting closer to understanding the make-up of Aarhus, just by observing the people on the train; like the three assertive artsy bikers who kept teasing the conductor about driving the train themselves, to which the conductor handed one of them the key and said in Danish, something like, “Okay, fint du er sådan en guide, du kører toget, og se hvad der sker!” Even though I didn’t understand the language so well, I understood the joking gestures, which is what Danes seem to have inserted within the stream of their language. It was a quality I admired.

So we waited and waited and waited for about another hour until a replacement train came in and boarded that one. Quite an adventure I thought thus far. Then as I boarded the train and found a place to sit down, I struck up a conversation w/a guy who actually knew who the Clean Boys were, a guy, in a leisure suit, with a button-down collar. He pointed out all the important architecture as the train sped along toward Aarhus.

And then the strangest thing happened. We pulled into a station named Middelfart! That cracked me up! Made me lose what little composure I had left. Middelfart! That city name made my trip at that point memorable! Then we passed by Horsens (where our record producer, Frede Nielsen) lived. It’s where the Danish state penitentiary formerly had been housed. As I continued to converse with the guy, the time seemed to go faster, as I drank in all the beauty that surrounded us.

At long last we were pulling into Aarhus, it was close to 7 pm and I began looking for Mulle and Pedro outside the train’s window. As the train slowed down, I saw them! I began to yell and scream for joy, which caused a few people to look at me strangely. When the train stopped, I grabbed my bags, dragged them down the steps and called out to them! And there they were! I was so excited and thrilled to meet them in person! We hugged each other and then Pedro & Mulle both told me in so many words that Morks would be picking us up within the hour and we’d be going down to the studio to rehearse.

I was weary, because I really hadn’t thought about doing that since I was so dead tired and dragging on my feet. After putting a bit of food in my stomach, Morks picked us up in his car and off we sped to Hi-Fi Cairo (Clean Boys’ rehearsal space). From there, we did a full take of Bite It You Scum, a GG Allin cover tune and even though I was terribly tired from lack of sleep and severe jetlag, I managed to belt out perhaps one of my coolest and weirdest versions of the song yet! Stumbling over words, I ended up creating a braggart phrase (though not intentionally) that would follow me wherever we went on tour (who the fuck do you think you are/just a Danish superstar) while in Denmark.

“Let’s call it a night,” Pedro remarked after the session.

I couldn’t agree more!

Flight To Denmark>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 11

When I arrived at O'Hare Airport, I had my main bag immediately checked and went straight for the international terminal lounge-it had been a while since I last traveled overseas-London, 2000 and that too was one heck of a time, but the difference with London and Denmark, I wasn’t going over to just hang out on my leisure---I had a job to do, promote a record, build a fan base and show Denmark what it is that I do best.

As I went through the security detection system in the international terminal, a beep went off and I was asked to go through again. Turns out it was my fish hat-my lucky hat, hat that has scared off more people than is known to man, so I’ve heard. At least witnessed it on my cross country bus tour of 2002. I was asked to take it off. Why? It had buttons on it, which had metal on it, thereby it was a threat to potential passengers I would meet and/or flight crew. The TSA security guard sheepishly traded looks with me and muttered, “Go figure.” Only in Chicago, I thought.

I waited for what seemed like hours and the eventually, a call for plane boarding was announced and aboard I walked. The plane I flew to Denmark, was rather roomy. 3 seats across, lots of magazines and newspapers to read within the eight and a half hour flight and plenty of free meals and lots of good booze too-not that I drank, but I did receive a nice small bottle of wine during the flight that I tucked away in my backpack.

The plane of course was packed. And other than having a booklet of CDs and a portable CD player and maybe one or two good books to read, I felt I was set. Eight and a half hours was a mighty long time to be flying in the air. So, after the first hour of settling into the flight, I listened to music. Then read and wrote a little in my paper journal too. Slept off my excitement until at least 7 am, when the lights came back on and babies were being weaned by their mothers. It would be a long day, I was convinced of it. we’d already flown through two time zones, another few changes were coming along the way, that much I knew.

Even though physically it felt like I’d flown for more than 8 hours, I knew that it was considerably less due to all the time changes and besides, it was based on Danish time, not American. As breakfast was being served and the lot of us passengers were chowing down, Danish newspapers were being passed out. Not knowing a word of Danish at that point, I thought the best way to learn it was by reading a newspaper, writing the words down I seemed to like or wanted to know about and then perhaps asking Clean Boys or whomever I encountered later when I needed help pronouncing.

Out of the many newspapers being passed around, I decided to pick out Ekstra Bladet; not sure why, but I think it had all the appeal of a sleazy tabloid like the New York Post or Chicago Sun-Times. I began reading and lo and behold, I stumbled upon my first word: sneaglefart! I had no idea what the word meant and asked the guy next to me if he knew what the word meant. He sheepishly said he had no idea, since he was from Holland and didn’t speak Danish. He sure looked Danish to me, my first mistake in assuming that all Danish men looked alike (with the exception of Mulle). I continued to read and of course in the process I fell asleep, at least until we were close to landing.

At approximately 1.30 pm Copenhagen time (6: 30 am Chicago time), we landed! It took me at least half an hour to get my bag and then I had to get past immigrations and get my passport stamped. I was nervous at this juncture. All those what if questions began to formulate in my head. It was the moment of truth as I stood in line silently. One by one people went to the counter where the master passport stamper sat. Don't offer too much information my friends told me. They were right, as I watched one man, who was told to stand to the right of the booth. Kiss-of-death and most likely denial of entry for him.

Then it was my turn. I had all my bags with me, a bit overloaded and an armful of Danish newspapers tucked beneath my left armpit. I stepped forward. The man behind the booth in his thickest Danish accent, speaking English to me, gave me the once-over and asked, "Do you speak Danish?" "No," I told him. "Then why do you have all those Danish newspapers?" I was a little startled, but answered, "So I can read and digest the words." He looked up at me perplexed and studied me further. Then he smiled. "What are you in Denmark for?" "Vacation," I told him. He laughed, stamped my passport and waved me through. "Welcome to Denmark," he said.

I was in! Yay!

And that guy still standing to the right of the booth? He didn't look too happy as Danish custom agents began frisking him.

And now the adventure truly began...

Eyjafjallajökull-We Are The Curse Breakers!>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 10

Nothing could have prepared me for the events that unfolded on April 14, 2010, 13 days before I would board a plane to take me to Denmark. Neither Clean Boys nor I could have possibly known this far in advance, that this crisis, the curse of all curses could dash our plans of a tour straight to hell.

I was in the beginning stages of packing my bags, one giant black bag with wheels, my small backpack and my laptop were all that was going with me. I decided; only take what I need this trip out. I’d be gone for nearly a month and also decided to pack light, knowing full well that I would be bringing plenty of trinkets back.

It seemed to be a running joke amongst others who knew me well, that I used to take virtually everything in the world that belonged to me, drag it halfway across America and then bring it all home again, on top of the other stuff I would pick up along the way. So when I told friends of mine that I was going to Denmark, a lot of them asked me if I planned bringing my entire apartment with me!

The morning of April 14 seemed like all the rest; I was lying in bed, listening to CBS News on my clock radio, when the broadcaster at the 7 am (Chicago time) hour, described something treacherous-something downright devastating and I nearly fainted the moment I heard it!

Eyjafjallajokull, an Iceland volcano, dormant for nearly 187 years, blew its top, causing European airspace to be shut down for nearly as long. I knew other things might have stopped me, but a volcano? None of us were prepared for this! Even as airspace was closed during of the first week or so, it affected millions upon millions of travelers around the world, several government agencies and airlines argued over the flight bans.

In the meantime, I kept in constant contact with Pedro and the rest of the crew. People all over asked me if I still had plans to go, now that the volcano had erupted; of course, I said at the time-Pedro was no different and told his fans the same thing---that tour was going ahead, even if it meant touring without me for the first few days or so.

Pedro offered a suggestion or two, such as, if I flew to Paris, he would drive all the way there, pick me up and then head back. Sounds mishegas, I know, but we had little choice in those early hours of the eruption.

In the days that followed, I monitored news reports and my airline, to see if my flight would be cancelled or scheduled as originally stated. As days wore on, European airspace opened up, airlines and European governmental agencies realizing that too much business was being lost and even though there were ash clouds floating all over, business resumed as normal.

We were relieved!

Pedro, as always would say, “We are the curse breakers!” how could I not agree with him this time?

As the hours ticked away on Tuesday, April 27, 2010, I knew I was prepared for just about anything. My bags all packed, my apartment locked, car dropped off a day earlier at a friend’s home, who would “take care of it” for me, while I was roaming around Denmark. As I rode the transit bus that mid-afternoon and headed toward O’Hare Airport in Chicago, I knew anything could happen at any time.

Yet, I also knew this would be greatest adventure I would ever embark upon. After April 27, 2010, nothing would be the same again.

Ever.

And that was indeed a good thing!

Mixing, Editing, Writing>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 9

Between the time after recording the tracks for the still as of yet, unnamed album (at that point) and before I left for Denmark, there was still plenty to do, like, name the album, come up with a name for a tour, get the tour dates, plan a budget, figure out what to bring with, figure out what I can actually take with and so and so forth.

Correspondence with Pedro via text, Skype and email was almost a daily routine at this point, but since Pedro, Mule & Marks were taking care of the tour dates and the other tour related stuff-the only thing we had to settle on as a whole, was a name for the album and the tour, the actual recorded tracks, which were sent back and forth and writing the liner notes for the record which was left up to me. On or about March 7, I finished writing the liner notes for the record, which we at this point decided was going to be called Safari Freakshow Adventure.

Here is the original liner notes I wrote for the album---before they were edited…

2009 was supposed to be my year, top of my game-then my world fell apart. That fall, I decided I wanted to do something totally brand new and so I strung together what I dubbed as my own punk opera; my own life story, as it relates to my own mental illness: clinical depression.

We arranged a date at two venues; Swing State! In Lake Villa, Illinois, while they managed to arrange a Denmark TV studio. The date we set was February 6, a Saturday night at preciously midnight. For Clean Boys it would be at 7 am. From there, everything seemed fine as wine, until January 2, 2010, when a fire broke out at Swing State! My venue was in limbo for some weeks, so I shopped around for another place to perform/record. Meantime, Pedro told me not to worry, as I began to chant that this date was cursed. I soon secured another date through the mistaken kindness of another friend, only to be kicked out a week later, for what he deemed us, meaning me and Clean Boys as too weird, even for his eclectic tastes. I wrote at least half-a-dozen proposals, all to have them turned down flat.

Nearly a week before, our show, Swing State! looked promising, as they had re-opened their doors for business once again and I felt a great sense of relief. And, like me, Clean Boys were handed a pink slip from the Denmark TV studio, who for all intensive purposes, backed out on them without explanation and they themselves, had to resort back to their own rehearsal space.

The record itself was recorded over Skype, a free downloadable telephone software program, plus two computers on both ends. I had a both a sound engineer, Popz (Dan Lee) and an events coordinator, Hugh Kennedy on my end and they had approximately five technicians, which included the other two Clean Boys, Andrej Marks, bassist and Jacob Mule Nansen, drums.

At sound check, that’s when all hell broke loose! The Clean Boys, who kept telling me to use two computers, one to receive and one to monitor sound/performance, throughout the time leading up to our live recording session, had the unfortunate luck of having their internet system crash, leaving them in a bind! I found that too humorous because we all expected my side to crash and the technicians at Swing State! managed to hold it all together!

By the time all was said and done, we recorded the album, with about nine people left in the whole of Swing State! I packed my car up, got some food before I hit the highway, tanked up at an interstate oasis and arrived home at 3:30 am. Now, if I was told nearly a year ago that I would end up making a record with a Danish punk band and ended up going over to tour with them, I would have said, “Yeah right!” But here it is, for your very ears to feast upon, my record w/Clean Boys.

Sid Yiddish, March 6, 2010

Pedro for the past several months had been calling our collaborations a sort of freakshow and one night, as I had come back from a routine pick-up from a local Freecycle group member, picking up a child’s flashlight, on the side of the flashlight had imprinted the words, Safari Adventure. I inserted Pedro’s phrase and viola! It made total sense: Safari Freakshow Adventure. The four of us had at last agreed on something that would represent us, perhaps in the light (pun intended) that we were supposed to have shine down on us in the first place.

Mule and I had been calling each other over Skype and we both had pretty long talks that would last well into the night. They had been doing their research on me and I did my research on them, so overall, I felt there was an even-keel pace to continue checking each other out.

But with different countries come different complications and it was perhaps one of the more usual complications of the entire trip. Back in December of 2009, I had stepped into Andy’s Music, a local instrument shop located in Chicago and while looking at instruments, I had struck up a conversation with one of the employees, who told me, that I would most likely need a permit to carry my shofar overseas, since it was a genuine animal horn and according to some, animal parts carried disease and without it I might be sunk.

So, I decided to contact the locale Danish consulate in Chicago and ask them. I made an inquiry and lo and behold, they had no clue and suggested I try the Washington, DC consulate. When I called the DC consulate and posed the same question to them, no one there knew and after prodding them for a bit, they gave me the email address of a Danish veterinarian, who he himself didn’t have a clue and then suggested I write to someone at the top Danish animal behavior school in within the country itself. In the meantime, I posted ads on Jewish-Danish forums with the same sort of questions, but to little or no avail. I was getting nervous, afraid my prize shofar would be confiscated when I entered the country.

Also by this time, the final rough mixes had been edited down and put in their proper place on the record, the photos for the album, including the CD label, liner notes and proper credits that would morph into the CD booklet and tour poster had been settled on, as well as final preparations for the tour itself, including the four writing workshops which I was prepared to teach, were finally in place!

With only six days to go an email arrived from Lone Henninger, a veterinarian from a Danish university in Ringsted, which was located about 35 minutes outside of Copenhagen, read in full, effectively giving me permission to carry a shofar with me. By then, I decided to play it safe and I purchased three additional shofar s that I could easily transport and keep well hidden in the event something happened.

But then of course, nothing prepared the four of us for the ultimate and seemingly final curse that was about to come shortly before I left America and arrive in Denmark.

And I mean nothing!

The Recording Session>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 8

It wasn’t particularly cold or snowy the week of February 1, 2010 in the Chicago area, as I recall it, but I am certain someone else will correct me-it’s called fading memory, but as always with the winter months, cold and snow always concerned me, especially since I had to drive 45 minutes northwest to the most important recording date of my life. And this day was no exception as I had to arrive to the space early, meaning, when the sun was still out, a strange concept to me, considering that I always performed at Swing State late and never ever saw the sun, but for this night, I had to be there early, somewhere in the neighborhood of 5pm, an hour or two before the regular show began.

We, meaning Clean Boys and I were scheduled to go on at midnight Chicago time, 7 am Copenhagen time, (February 7) but in the meantime, we had to do a sound check. For the sound check itself, Pedro had advised me to have two computers, one to receive and one to monitor sound/performance. So, I brought mine, a Lenovo top-of-the-line laptop at the time-I own a refurbished Dell now and our event coordinator stateside, Hugh Kennedy brought his laptop as well. The Clean Boys were to be projected on a movie screen, via Skype. A fool-proof plan so we thought!

And then of course, the inevitable happened at sound check on their side, apparently their internet wasn’t working so well. Try as they might, Clean Boys couldn’t get a good enough signal to transmit. It was the nearly the straw that broke the camel’s back, so-to-speak and especially for them, since they had been up for nearly 24 hours, testing and retesting everything, making sure their connection worked properly. All that work for nothing, so it seemed.

The night wore on-we continued to text each other, Pedro and I, now reduced to one computer on our end, discovering that one worked just as well as two. They had to have a little sleep, three hours to be exact and that’s probably all they had, by the time it was our turn to hit the stage. As always, I had my session at Swing State recorded. But this time, they recorded it two-fold: recorded full session recording in the left channel, live audience in the right channel.

In the midnight session, only nine people remained, mostly gathered around the bar toward the back-that was typical for Swing State, nobody seemed to care either way, except for a few of the more daring audience members who sat closer to the stage. A symbolic number for me, but even still. Before I hit the stage, I passed out plastic toy instruments; bird whistles, panpipes and maracas (for Jazz Haiku-A-Rama Part 1/Part 2 Swing State version), which I discovered later didn’t seem to pick up so well in the monitors-ah well, I live and learn.

The show began and so did the Skype connection. But as I also discovered throughout our session, nothing was perfect, as our calls dropped at least three times. However, as luck would have it, the calls would drop, just as we would finish each song, not a big worry, as I would call them back every single time, especially upon discovering later that when the call dropped during the recording of 75,000 Miles, the second part of DP: A Soundtext Punk Opera, they had a back-up plan, something that was partially recorded already.

Other than the call dropouts, the night seemed to go okay. Which were aces in my book. With a little time left to spare, I proceeded to throat sing the club owner’s girlfriend happy birthday, sadly she was too reluctant and rude for that matter, to even bother to come up to the stage, until she was coaxed to. After that, she went back to the bar and conversed with all of her friends as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

The session was filmed for posterity and to date remains unreleased. We had a good night. Clean Boys thought so too. I didn’t get out of Swing State until 2 am. Pedro and I continued to text each other, at least until I got into my car and drove back home. Our main job was now complete and temporarily in the can, until step two, which was for me to send the recorded files over to Pedro, who in turn, would get it over to the man (Frede Perle Nielsen) who would produce our record and make it sound sweet, sharp and clear.

Even as I fell asleep at my keyboard in that early morning time period, (I was to call Pedro over Skype and talk about the session-it was something we did in those early days of collaborating) it was one of the greatest nights I could have ever had.

And the world around me agreed.

Sunday Morning With Rick Kogan>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 7

Being on Kogan’s program was a thrill, not to mention absolutely plain weird! After being let inside, I was led to what they called “the green room,” which was nothing more than a couch, with a huge gray filing cabinet. I sat and waited, occasionally seeing one or two other people, still texting to Pedro that I had made it inside and was just waiting for them to come collect me to take me to the radio broadcast room. Time ticked slowly and I just wanted it to come faster than it did, but that the trouble with time and how those things work. Finally, at twenty five minutes after seven, I was taken by the producer and brought over to formally meet Rick Kogan, the radio broadcaster-but not a lot had changed between the time I had met him back in the fall of 2008 up until now, meaning, he still looked pretty much the same to me, low voice-the kind of voice I admired and made me think of all those old time radio broadcasts that I listened to on varying stations around the radio dial.

We said hello to each other and then he instructed me to sit down and slip the headphones on and I waited in silence for the news to be read, the commercials to run and so on and so forth. At last it was the moment of truth, 7:35 am, when Kogan introduced me to a waiting and perhaps an unsuspecting Sunday morning audience. In his introductory monologue of me, he read from the beginning of an article he had written for his Sidewalks column, in the then-Sunday Chicago Tribune magazine, in which he said, “We first saw and heard Sid Yiddish at a gathering of writers and entertainers one rainy September night at El Jardin, the Mexican restaurant popular for, depending on whom you ask, its food, its brain-numbing margaritas or its proximity to Wrigley Field.

He was part of one of the series of events that eventually became a book, "Cubbie Blues: 100 Years of Waiting till Next Year," which also features a short piece by me. Yiddish did a bit of singing and played the Shofar (ram's horn). He fooled around with a Ouija board. His act was at once appealing and odd. Some people scratched their heads, others laughed and some did both. When he asked what I thought, I said, "I think you make Andy Kaufman look like Jack Benny." He took this as intended, as a compliment…”

At that moment, I felt weird, but defiantly proud and weird and tired at the same time, since I stayed up all night just to catch the night bus, having been performing the night before at a hair salon opening in the city. And then Kogan said something like, “Sid, welcome to the program. I’ve seen a lot of entertainers in my time, but nothing quite like you.” That was an understatement! And on top of that, Kogan, like many before him and many after him, didn’t seem to know where to begin with me, but he found his way rather quickly and the questions started. Somewhere in the midst of all that, as I rattled off everything that I do, he asked me about throat singing and asked me to explain it and so I gave him the quick, short answer.

Then I asked him if he wanted me to demonstrate it for him. As he gave the listeners a word-picture description, I stood up and began to do a quick version of “Mykel Board Weasel Squeezer.” I had often wondered myself if I could actually throat sing at 7:45 on a Sunday morning and if there was any doubt in my mind that morning that I couldn’t, all of those what ifs were quickly erased, as I launched directly into it.

Another commercial & and a quick mad dash out-in cigarette break for Kogan and then in came Pedro, who had been called up by Kogan’s producer. Kogan asked Pedro how we hooked up, the concepts of the projects itself and a few other questions along the way.

By the time all was said and done-our mission was accomplished. Must have made a dent in something, because by the day’s end, I had 45 hits on my MySpace page-a personal best at that point for me. We were headed toward fruition-the Swing State recording session was right around the corner and while I had hoped for all the best the following Saturday night/Sunday morning, I had no idea neither what was in store nor what was waiting on the other side...as usual...

Promoting The Project>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 6

I mean, it was alright for me, until Clean Boys were dealt a blow. Like myself, they intially had the better deal too; hooked up with a Danish television station, who had promised them a live feed and a potential audience; essentially, the whole nine yards. And then the week before, the bottom dropped out for them. The station handed them a pink slip, simply stating that they were unable to help them out. And just like that, they were left out in the cold. No further explanations. And so, they resorted back to their rehearsal space, Cairo Hi-Fi, in Aarhus.

The record itself, as stated previously, was recorded on Skype, a free downloadable telephone software program, plus two computers on both ends. I had both a sound engineer and an events coordinator for the session. Initially, we had done a Skype test on December 22 2009, to see how well Skype would hold up-that was done w/Mulle the drummer/percussionist and computer whiz, which I discovered later, whom, I was developing a better relationship via Skype, as we moved well past the “Sid Shittish” affair.

A week before we actually recorded, we brought our project public through the magic of radio, with help from Chicago Tribune columnist & radio host, Rick Kogan, who was intrigued with the whole project. How I managed to get on the program was still simply amazing. I had met Kogan previously at a venue in which I performed at in the fall of 2008. Talked to him for a bit afterward, told him who my brother was and that lead to months of difficulty, which amounted to an extremely hateful sibling rivalry on behalf of my older brother, Louie. But in the meantime, whilst Rick promised to get me onto his program, months passed by until, a cold, grey November afternoon, when I saw Kogan and Chuck Osgood, former Tribune photographer outside the opening of an exhibit that featured both his and Kogan’s work in downtown Chicago, close to the ICC rail station over on Randolph, just off of Michigan Avenue, where only moments earlier, I had emerged out of. Kogan was surprised to see me and I told him my story.

Me and my now former pal, Twitchy, were returning from a funeral/memorial of my late friend Scott Bapple Sr., who died from a freak accident; checked himself in for a routine catscan in Indiana and for some reason or another, fell off the operation table and cracked his skull; doctors didn’t give him much hope for survival-three months at the most, but it didn’t look good. And so, within hours after hearing the news, he died. Like Kogan, I too didn’t believe it. It was all just a little too mind-numbing for me. In any event, I told Kogan at the time that I was going to Denmark & Germany in the springtime and recording the album and I think I asked him again to get onto his show. He told me to email him the following week and for me to pick a date. And so I did, ironically and perhaps coincidently, picking January 31, which just happened to be the birthdate of Mykel Board, the man who put the four of us together to begin with!

I remember the night before the radio program-I was performing at a hair salon opening somewhere in the city (Chicago) and got home rather late. I had a feeling if I went to sleep, that I would never wake up, so I decided to make a night of it and just stay up all night. Around 3 am, I took a shower, got dressed, stuffed my backpack and walked toward Main street and Chicago Avenues, to catch the Evanston night bus.

It wasn’t terribly cold that morning, as I rode on into the Howard El and from there, a Red Line train down to the Grand Avenue subway stop, all the while, texting back and forth with Pedro Da Palma, bassist for Clean Boys, who would also appear with me on the program, via phone. I remember how concerned at the time Pedro was, in regards to the radio station calling him up, thinking it was a tiny radio station. Not to worry, I told him, as I knew better; this was after all WGN Radio, 50,000 watts of purepower-a superstation to boot!

From there, I walked around in the darkness for the next hour or so, looking up at the great majestic buildings covered in shadows. Then eventually made my way up to Michigan Avenue and stood across the street from WGN Radio itself-felt nervous and excited and from there, ducked into a local diner and bade my time until it was closer to 6:30 am, when I crossed the street and entered Tribune Tower. Got to the guard’s desk, where I was ID’d and then a call was made into the station. I’d be picked up by the producer. I had to tell them my real name. that was a hoot! No one knew who “the other guy” was, but the producer remarked, “it’s okay, your friend can come too.”

Oh! If only she knew...

Get Out Of My House!>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 5

Turned out it would be. A hippie dance band that I had been a member of at the time; Atomic Theory Dance Band, to be exact, Eliezer Kaplan, the band’s leader, offered his home studio up for me to record the performance at. So, off I went on that Sunday afternoon to go look at the set-up, no sooner did I get there, when trouble began. On a side note, although I was a member of the group and I had some say about how songs were shaping up and offering suggestions and ideas, Kaplan was (and still is) a bully. Before I even entered his home, I was to call in advance, as he had two dogs, one named Mitzi, a small white friendly poodle and the other Buddy, a rather vicious dog, which Kaplan claimed was a nice dog despite his bark. He said I had to call in advance so they could cage the dogs and to keep them from attacking me. Kaplan, in that strange way, shared the commonality with Buddy. Both dogs were caged together, a rather cruel way if you ask me, but I digress.

I was let in the front door and followed him upstairs to the attic, aka the recording studio. From there, he read me the riot act, what I could touch, what I couldn’t touch or use. No problem, so I thought. So we decided to test the equipment. First the electrical outlet. I plugged my laptop cord in, then pulled it out. He nearly blew a gasket, complaining that the electrical wiring had cost him nearly a few hundred dollars and that I should be more careful. A few minutes later, I don’t remember if it happened by accident or on purpose, but as we passed by his full drum kit, a cymbal stand and a smaller drum crashed to the floor, causing him to go beserk! “Oh my god!” he screamed, “this is going to cost me a fortune! “Out! Out! “Get out of my house! No! I won’t help you! No! you can’t record here! You’re too weird for my eclectic tastes!” He began chasing me and down and out I ran downstairs from upstairs studio, only to be met head-on by his vicious barking dog. Kaplan cursed me out further, as I left and as I left, I heard the door slam hard, as his voice trailed off, still cursing me out.

I was back to square one again. No proposals had proved fruitful thus far. Our last hope for me was to record my enitre portion from my studio apartment. In other words, Plan B. I was no stranger to recording our performing in an apartment before, recalling the time I had my appendix taken out in September, 1998 and I was unable to drive anywhere for nearly a week.

My band and myself at the time, Tribal Screen Hens, were scheduled to perform live on WZRD (Northeastern Illinois University, Chicago, Illinois) on a Sunday night. No problem I told the radio hosts; we’d just set up the living room like a recording stage and call in from a speaker phone. Problem solved, difficulty averted. But here I was stuck, all possibilities exhausted, ready for Plan B. that’s when word came from Swing State; it had reopened for business, fire department approved.

Yay! We were on our way!

We Are The Curse-Breakers:How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 4

Not until we had a record, I wrote him back. But even before it began, I told him that we had enough material from the three performances combined for recorded material, but that wasn’t good enough for Pedro; he wanted to newly record the tracks. To me at the time and still to some degree, live recorded tracks are so much better than recorded studio tracks, simply because studio recordings can appear stilted, whilst a live track is tingling with the element of surprise and the endless possibility of wrong vocals or chords or any number of things.

I thought this would be so easy. All I had to do was book a venue to record live at, not perform for an audience-not that I would be able to get one; my biggest dilemma to date, but another time for this tale. And what venue could possibly be the place for me? None other than Swing State, a former 1920s speakeasy, now teenage non-alcoholic nightclub in the far northwest suburbs of chicago.

So I booked the date in advance, set for February 7, 2010, an midnight session for me; for Clean Boys, they would be online with us at 7 am Denmark time. I remember at the time, how a lot of my musician friends thought how crazy and cool the concept was. Who in their right mind would want to record a record on a Sunday morning?

That was the least of our worries. It had been a good New Year’s Eve, though, I can’t recall where I was, the day after, January 2, 2010, that goodness faded to a glimmer, when Swing State reported via Myspace, that a fire had broken out and as a result, the club would be closed until further notice. That was devestating to hear, if not think. Just five weeks away from our recording session and I thought that it was cursed.

Not so, said Pedro reassuredly told me both on Skype and in emails , “we are the curse-breakers,” he would tell me over and over. So, it was my job to find a new venue that would take us on; I must have written at least six proposals to coffeehouses, performance spaces and clubs. There were a few who dug the idea, but didn't have the Internet capability at the time, some who claimed their landlord would allow such a performance to take place because it was against the rules, according to their lease and the rest of them? well, they never bothered to respond. I was getting worried as the date inched closer.

Then another glimmer of hope sprang out of nowhere-an offer that seemed too good to be true.

DP-A Sound Text Punk Opera>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 3

We didn’t get together until nearly one year later for Chicago Calling Four, Fall, 2009 in Chicago.

This time it was different; I wanted to do something completely out of character for me. So I strung together what I dubbed my own “punk opera,” entitled DP (which stood for the word depression)-A Sound Text Punk Opera, which was based on my own mental illness. I had previously toyed with at least one of the pieces beforehand and felt the other two pieces, one an actual unpublished essay on that very subject, plus a a poem, in which I changed one word so I could disguise it.

In mid-September, 2009, I asked Clean Boys to be a part of it and asked them to compose music for the first two parts; first part being a sort of rocknroll composition that would collapse suddenly at the end, while the second part required a jazz score; the third part would consist of the drummer hitting his kick pedal against his drum kit, whilst the other members of the band would speak in foreign languages other than their own native tongues. By this time, I had lost my job. We were communicating almost exclusively by Skype, texts and emails by now. Every few weeks I’d go to a local library, reserve a room and talk to them. Turnaround time on the compositions was less than two weeks. I was astonished, if not completely amazed!

We did one dry run rehearsal at the public library that nearly caused a riot! I had to not to blow my Shofar so loud though, that was the trick and of course, curious onlookers pressed closely to the windows to see what was going on. We were on our way.

In early October, we were ready. The show at Mercury Cafe in Chicago seemed to go off okay, but there was one catch; while one could see hear them physically, you couldn’t see them at all; we lacked a wall or a film screen to project them onto. That would change at the late October, 2009 performance that followed Chicago Calling at HyperMedia. Their images were projected onto a giant wall, appearing as if the four of us were onstage together for the very first time. That was experimental and thus began the task of negotiating for a decent time slot for both us and Clean Boys. Circumstances and time slots were not always negotiable, however when it came to dealing with hosts and artists running venues, however. It always seemed to be a matter of art snobbery and eggshell tiptoeing or groveling; not always a good choice, but such is the case in a city like Chicago. I managed to get them and us a total of 28 minutes, which by the venue’s standards, was already way too much time. Of course, Pedro kept the pressure on to get them even more time, but the more I pushed, the less responsive and more iron-fisted the venue became.

But I completely understood Pedro, because they were getting up in the middle of the night to perform. Shows that I would often collaborate on with them involved a six-to-seven hour time difference. If say for example, it was 9 pm in Chicago, it was 4 am in Denmark. And unless they were reporters, law enforcement personnel, firefighters or lumberjacks, getting up at early meant something completely different and so, 28 minutes meant little if nothing at all!

By the time all was said and done, however, Clean Boys and myself had a powerful product and that’s when Pedro proposed that I should come overseas to tour with them.

Sid Yiddish, You're Sid Shittish! Fuck Off!>How I Met The Clean Boys>Chapter 2

From that moment on, we became fast friends on Myspace. It would be nearly a year before I would ask Pedro’s band, Clean Boys to collaborate with me at Chicago Calling 3 in Chicago. And so began, one of the craziest yet greatest partnerships I ever formed with men I never even met yet! And all of this totally by accident, due to technology! Who would have thought it possible?

Also, in 2008, I had taken and/or made a more different and interesting career turn; I performed on a fluke incident at an event entitled, “Lovable Losers Literary Revue,” a performance series mourning the 100 years since 1908 that the Chicago Cubs had been in and won a baseball World Series. Along the way, I had met a true cast of characters and became part of the show, but we all had something in common and that is, we loved baseball-not so much the Cubs for me, however. Among the connections I made, was Chicago Tribune columnist and WGN radio host, Rick Kogan, which not only would pay off positively, but negatively, to the point where I would eventually lose my livelihood, due to both personal envy and old sibling rivalry.

And so the phone calls begin; the traded thoughts ideas exchanged, both through cell phone and emails. Little did I know what was waiting for me on the other side, the night of the performance. Locally, I had put out a call for my own band, $2 Cockroach to come collaborate with us. Curiously, two of the three members came out; Mike Sviokla (guitar) & Rat Niptik (electric bowed bass). Wes might have been in Los Angeles by then and then the trio that made up Clean Boys. There was Andrej Morks (guitar), Jacob “Mulle” Nansen (percussion) & of course, Pedro Da Palma (bass). We settled on my poetry performance piece, "Jazz Haiku-A-Rama." They in turn, came up what they dubbed a little over two dozen "jingles" for the set. They wrote an intro and an outro for it as well. I was pleased.

The plan was simple. Broadcast hook-up via Skype (via the Internet). That was plan B. Plan A would have been holding my cell phone up to the microphone and have Clean Boys heard that way. When I arrived at Av-Aerie, (half loft/half performance space on Chicago near west side-now closed), I was told that the host venue’s Internet was down. Translated further: the owner of the venue didn’t pay his bill on time, so service was cut off. What to do? What to tell Pedro and his band mates? I chose not, thinking it would complicate matters. And boy did it; temporarily.

The whole of my night before we went onstage-me & my band here, Clean Boys there-and unbeknownst to my band here, was spent on my cell phone in the outside hall, either talking or texting back and forth with Pedro. When I was given the bad news, I texted Pedro and told him that we’d be going back to Plan A. They weren’t happy and I received the brunt of their anger when their drummer Mulle called me and we had the following exchange…

Mulle-Is this Sid Yiddish?

Me-Yes, yes it is.

Mulle-Sid Yiddish, you’re Sid Shittish! Fuck Off!

Bang! Down went the slammed phone. I began to cry and have a panic attack. Had several that night in fact. I didn’t understand why he was angry with me, when it wasn’t my fault to begin with. I didn’t know what to do. Again, my phone rang and I didn’t know if it would be a wise idea to pick it up. Slowly, I picked it up and on the other end was Pedro, who apologized profusely. He told me that Mulle was upset. Understandably, I thought, but it was no reason to curse me out. Finally, a miracle occurred; the Internet connection went up just as we were all going onstage; it was 10 pm Chicago time, 5 am Denmark time. Thank god, I thought. We did a quick nine minute live rehearsal in front of the entire audience and then performed together for an additional 23 minutes before Skype (Internet service) dropped again. Of course, being the last act of the night, we had a little upper advantage and poetic license to be a bit more creative. Shortly before we performed Jazz-Haiku-A-Rama as a “super group,” I passed out plastic toy panpipes, maracas & bird whistles to the attending audience.

The performance itself was maddening to say the least-not knowing which way it would go, as we plodded along, both Clean Boys and I were totally out of synch with each other. As a result, hilarity from the audience ensued, but all of us involved really dug it. One woman in particular was reallyintrigued by our performance as evidence from this edited (for space) rare email sent to me, one day later.

“Greetings Sid....

My husband and I were at the amazing Calling Chicago festival last night at AV aerie on Fulton Street. What an awesome evening it was. For us, it reminded us that art and thinking outside the box is still alive in Chicago...phew! We had a blast. What a cool concept of combining musicians from all over the globe to perform simultaneously. A positive effect of technology, to be sure. We enjoyed the evening immensely...We really loved the kind, open vibe of all those in attendance but we especially enjoyed your Haikuorama segment with the CLEAN BOYS and your group here. We only wish that we could have heard more of each...maybe next year. We feel very sad, and embarrassed that we had to cut out just as you were about to finish...forgive me, forgive us. We wanted to hoot and holler. (Our driver was not feeling well and had already stayed long after he was able to.) PLEASE pass on our kudos to your group and to the CLEAN BOYS. What a great group of musicians they all are. Hope you all had as much fun performing as we all did attending. And thanks for the maracas. How cool, fun and generous to give us each a music maker. So, no matter what happens, know you guys all did an amazing job. And once again, please pass on to your group of musicians and to the CLEAN BOYS just how great it was! You all rocked the world last night...literally!”

I remember getting a lift home from Mike that night-as we were headed north. We didn’t talk much. Mike isn’t much of a talker either in person or on a road trip, as I discovered later, I received another text message from Pedro. Would it be okay if he phoned me and we talk? Sure I said, even though I was kind of numb from everything else from beforehand and the performance afterward-I just wanted to think about it all silent and rest my voice and my mind. The telephone conversation didn't last long, but the gist of it was that working together was a good thing and we should do it again. And soon.

It Usually Begins By Accident: How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter One

It usually begins by accident. Everything I have ever done in the past seven years seems to have been done by accident or found by mistake. Take my fantastic adventure to both Denmark and Germany in 2010 for example; one of the greatest accidents that could have ever happened to me! It all started back in 2004 really, the early summer of 2004, when I became a performance artist by mistake, while performing at a suburban poetry open mic, which instead of poetry for that night, I decided to create a game in honor of that bumbling fool of a president that all Republicans bow and grovel to now, none other than that dead corpse that used to represent life, Ronald Wilson Reagan. His funeral was that day. I was slaving away at my desk, trying to come up with an idea to honor him, but of course I had no poems, so I decided to create a game, entitled, “Pin The Quote In Reagan’s Mouth.” The grand prize was an authentic 1980 Reagan bumper sticker, while the constellation prizes were six Roosevelt dimes-the talk being at the time, that Reagan’s face was going to replace Roosevelt’s. Thankfully, that never happened.

And so when my turn came, we played the game and the audience loved it. The only person who was outraged was Babyshoes, the host of the event. He went outside and must have smoked at least half a pack of cigarettes in a span of five minutes. When the evening ended, he screeched at the top of his lungs and nearly lunged at me. A mutual friend of ours intervened and kept him at arm’s length. I was banned from using props that night. It never felt quite the same after that and I remember, just barreling out of there, grabbing a hoagie and eating outside at the stroke of midnight, scared out of my wits by his madness.

I knew then that I was meant to be a performer and not just a poet. Poetry readings were becoming too boring at that venue anyway-same old humdrum pretentious bullshit June-moon-spoon being read and everyone politely clapping, even if they didn’t understand what the author was saying. I had outgrown this scene. Later, I heard the guy actually came back, looking for me and that frightened me even more; he claims that he didn’t see me go to the greasy spoon that a few of us always go to afterwards and he came to look for me to see if I was alright.

I didn’t buy that. The guy went absolutely apeshit on me and I knew my number was up and I would no longer be accepted in his good graces. And so on that night, I was reborn. And I began performing little experiments here and there,

Right about that same time frame of 2004, I was taking piano and voice lessons from a music instructor I didn’t get along with at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago. She was very rough on me, a pathological liar to boot and a backstabber as I discovered shortly thereafter (refer to “Pain Is A Lingering Pill, Taking Its Sweet Time To Dissolve” elsewhere on this blog, for further explanation). As much as I tried to get along with her, meaning going to the lessons and learning what I could under these extreme conditions, it just went south, she soured on me and finally, it came to pass that we just couldn’t work together and she in turn made it difficult for me to be assigned to other instructors, which was mutiny in my eyes. That instructor should have been disciplined for her inappropriate behavior, but finally, the school’s program director intervened and just told me to pick another class. That’s when I chose throat singing, the most difficult, yet challenging music class ever, outside of tap dancing, which I would pursue a few years later. Sadly, that music instructor still works at the school.

Fast forward to late summer, 2006. I had just discovered Youtube and the art of digital photos/films, so I decided to begin filming myself throat singing, just as a way to study my technique. In previous years, I used to tape record myself, so this was just one step up. The first film I made was okay and I had sent it out to everyone on my email list; I was proud of what I had accomplished, even if it seemed kind of weird. So one late hot weekday summer afternoon, I decided to film myself throat singing my own Tuvin throat singing ballad, which at the time was considered more or less an exercise to better my throat singing chops. I named it Mykel Board Weasel Squeezer, after my good friend Mykel Board, more so because his first and last name has a total of four different vowel sounds, which fit the bill perfectly. And Weasel Squeezer? Well, don’t get me started on that!

I can say however, it is not sexual, despite the run-ins I would have a few years later with a certain band leader and his crazy fat-ass wife. It was and remains nonsense. So, about a year later, I received a comment on the video from a certain Pedro Da Palma of Aarhus, Denmark, whom I discovered was actually online himself searching for Mykel Board’s old band Artless, to see if there were any films of his band , posted on YouTube. When he discovered there weren’t, he punched in Mykel’s name and found my throat singing video instead!

I Am At Last Yours: An Occupational Hazard>Act 36

Disclaimer: Don't be dismayed at goodbyes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetime, is certain for those who are friends. Why does it take a minute to say hello and forever to say goodbye? Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair. May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand. Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise probably believes that not only is great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending and should remember not to cry because it's over; smile because it happened.

In the end, life doesn’t matter. It’s the bad, weird and funny stuff that the rest of the population will always remember about you. I know that now and I knew it back then. What I didn’t know back then, was how much hatred and contempt they held for me, enough so that they wanted to kill me right on the spot. And when I was executed that afternoon, I remembered how sad I felt for five minutes, but how freeing my soul would be in the journey I would take into the next world.

But let me back up. Back up to early spring nearly two years ago-when I felt my demise was eminent, when I knew death was slinking around the corner, waiting to hook me into a grave quicker than I realized. I remember the time I was in the prison shower facilities drying myself off and talking to Dusty Rusty about the upcoming season prospects of the Devil’s Island baseball team, when The Most Divine One came in and for whatever reason at hand, began smashing one of the toilet seats up and down and back and forth, unabashedly wild, while looking at me angrily. Me and Dusty Rusty were perplexed and did what any human with their wits still about them, would do; we got the hell out of there and touched base later that night. Seemingly, Dusty Rusty, suggested that The Most Divine One was practicing what he preaches, his new practical theory about his own experience within the prison system, entitled, “Curmudgeon In A Can.”

Then the bottom fell out. And everywhere I went, The Most Devine One followed me; or had his foot soldiers or bootlickers follow me. Prison bathroom trips were never quite the same when I had to use the facilities only to realize I was being watched closely or followed. I had to think quickly and curl myself up in a fetal position upon the toilet seat, just to keep from getting discovered that I was relieving myself from new medicinal treatments I was receiving from the prison’s outpatient psych ward. I didn’t feel safe anywhere, not by a long shot.

The screws were being tightened. And the tighter they became, the more I dug in. The more I had to invent and reinvent ways from keeping myself from going mad or just plain crazy. And believe me, they were doing everything in their power to get me to commit suicide. My body couldn’t lie for much longer, as the longer I tried to hold it in, I developed the shakes; my nervous system was on overload and as a result, I started breaking down and that’s exactly what the plan was that he had in mind.

I knew too much; knew how the system worked; knew who was sleeping with who; knew about the great secret fraud that was being passed around like cocaine sprinkled upon a baby lying on a platter party tray. I knew everything; I exposed their secret lies, warned others before they met their untimely demises; I told the stories over and over and in different ways. I knew who they were protecting; who was under the radar and whose asses they kissed or bounced bellies with. I knew all of that just by observing and taking mindful mental notes.

I remember back to the day that The Most Divine One and the Fraternal Goon Twins found out that I was keeping track of them; just as they had been quietly keeping track of us; the harassment that followed for weeks after and the encouragement I received behind the prison walls, even as no one would step forward to back me up. They were all afraid for their lives and did whatever they had to survive-in other words, they were sheep. When I said blue, they screamed orange. That’s how I knew the tide was turning and my own tsunami was closing in on me, just waiting to drown me.

I remember all the fights, all the shouting matches, all the deaths, all the anger, all the hatred and yet, I didn’t care anymore-I did want out and I kept looking for other avenues of justice, but I never found any; they always led to dead-ends; even as others like Loud-Mouthed Lucy told me that I’d be alright; but I never was. Never was alright. Never would be. Not in this lifetime, nor ever.

On the day that I was executed, Suzy Scarecrow marched up to me and said we need to visit The Most Divine One. I didn’t understand why at first and then I knew. As I stood before the fat bastard, he threw the book at me and accused me of every dirty trick in the prison system that I ever committed; dirty tricks that he taught me when I first arrived on Devil’s Island oh so long ago-the same dirty tricks that he committed and passed onto every prisoner that he wanted to do his dirty work for him; like The Numbers Game. Who could ever forget that? Johnny Vegas (refer to Act 9 & Act 28 for further explanation) became his number one bootlicker for him; his golden boy, the boy who could never go wrong even when the rest of us knew damn well that he was skimming the tops for The Most Divine One. And then, he rewarded him handily by placing him in a golden cell, which Johnny Vegas took to like the glad-handing chameleon that he was. And what was the purpose of The Numbers Game? To skim the cream and let Upper Prison Brass know that he, The Most Divine One, was keeping the prisoners in line.

And who could ever forget the insanitary conditions of that prison? No ventilation. Sickness and disease spread casually, like herpes on a doorknob. And what about the X-5 Unit, that roving gang of mad idiots who gambled prisoners’ rights away, whilst Upper Prison Brass just sat on their hands, admiring the view? And what about The Thin Man and all the chaos he created? And old Twitchy who moaned and bitched a lot over nothing? And the Fraternal Goon Twins who bullied and intimidated the lot of us? And what about the great Broadcast Betty and her cohort, Dirty-Dishing Daisy, the greatest and slimiest gossipers on Devil’s Island? And Old Black Devil herself? The one who got me in this mess to begin; what about her?

Rumor had it that The Most Divine One and Old Black Devil were banging the bars at night, but I don’t know.

So there I stood, as the great fat bastard read me my crimes against humanity, while Suzy Scarecrow sat silently like an unplugged robot. And when my turn came to speak; I was laughed at and called a liar and in the heat of the accusations, he put forth a mountain of evidence against me. I too had evidence, but tucked away secretly that prolonged my life for another 24 months.

And now, that 24 months has expired; my march to the death chamber has arrived; I am wearing a straitjacket with shackles twisted around my arms and feet. There is no way out of this final mile to the end; everyone who wants to see me dead is at last getting their wish. No turning back. Tonight, I go out a silent hero, having told my stories to anyone who would listen and that means, you, you and you and her, too.

Take me Oh Lord. I am at last yours.