Hissing, spitting, howling, purring from a dumpster in a back alley of Cyber City - TALES WITH THE BEAT for ADULTS ONLY and artists, atheists, adventurers, beatnics, bohemians, brights, dharma bums, dreamers, dancers, civil libertarians, eco-warriors, free-thinkers, freaks, loners, libertines, mystics, mayhem-surfers, outcasts, poets, punks, pagans, renegades, ravers, rockers, queers, shamans, sci-fi nuts, trippers, trancers, tricksters, wanderers, wankers, yogis, zorros, zippies and zen.
These stories, that have been available on
Blogspot for 10 years for free, will now only be available on Amazon at the
address above. They are contained in “Vagabon Freak”, the 1st volume
of a trilogy titled “The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cats”. I have been the
archetypal starving artist in his garret, painting, drawing and writing,
writing, writing as if I were some waif crying out in the wilderness. Now I
need you, dear reader, to hear my cries and go to Amazon and buy a copy of my
book and keep me alive. There you will find my complete tale, from beginning to
end, in one place, for you to hold in your hot little hands. When you read it
straight through, I assure you, it will blow your mind.
Below are introductory paragraphs and some
pictures that I still retain to illustrate this story, hopefully to give you a
come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ.
Purged of his Christian upbringing by his psychedelic
misadventures, with God the Father knocked from his throne, Arthur could
finally realize the Nijinsky lurking in his heart and dance out his own version
of “The Rites of Spring.” The only beneficial influence imparted by Keith, the
false friend, was his encouragement of Arthur to join a progressive dance
troupe. He was introduced to Arturo Turbull, a gay Victorian Ballet Company
retiree, built like a short, muscular bull-terrier, who taught modern ballet
with a repetitive bark in a dinky hall in inner-city Prahran.
Arthur attended classes twice a week for three years,
arduously leaping and pirouetting to the master’s beat, spinning, bending,
lifting, turning, till he became quite the twinkle-toes and could put Nijinsky
himself to shame with his erotic dance frenzy. As a worthless poof Arthur
needed to prove his artistic soul’s integrity and he took to jazz dance like a
fawn to the frolic.
Every year Arturo put on an amateur show in whatever
down-market theater he could get a hold of and he expected his students to
prove their worth by prancing about to his choreography in front of an audience
of patronizing family and friends. Arturo worked his dancers like the overseer
of a chain gang, banging out rhythms on the floor with a cane, always with the
pursed lips of disdain at all the imperfect posturing, a real old queen who
thankfully kept his hands off the boys.
(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB
address above and buy the book to read further.)