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.
Sample:
Arthur smiled wickedly when he thought back to when he’d
first met Sid Quartz. It was at the one palatable restaurant in the monastery
town of Shangri-la, the Neemal Hotel, a dark, grungy cavern patronized by the
hippie-set for its half-western cuisine.
He’d heard a Yankee accent broadcasting loudly from the
backroom, telling some deadbeats “How it is.” He followed it to its source and
introduced himself, intrigued by the American’s “know-all” attitude. They
discovered they were both studying yoga at the Yoganiketan Foundation and
quickly became fast friends, the English language, mysticism and popular
culture as their common bond.
Sid Quartz was a Jewish New Yorker in India pondering his
existence, questioning religious tradition, searching for other paradigms. He
looked a bit like Al Pacino crossed with Droopy the Dog, wily, cynical and
disappointed. He was a drop-out from the American entertainment industry, once
a successful agent to the stars and, having brushed up against the trappings of
fame and wealth, was jaded and gotten hungry for riches of the soul, something
difficult to find in Hollywood.
Arthur was fascinated by his street-smart confidence and
“been there, done that” attitude and he in turn was charmed by Arthur’s
Australian laid-back humor and larrikin cheekiness. Sexual attraction did not
come into the equation, Sid being straight as an arrow and Arthur closeting his
homosexual nature behind a façade of the esoteric seeker. As well as yoga and
meditation, they had many common interests and they discussed Life, the
Universe, Rock and Roll and movies earnestly and endlessly as young people in
every generation do.
For all his soul-searching and hippie ways, Sid was still
a Jewish boy from Brooklyn, and no one could outsmart or hoodwink him in a
business deal. Throughout his yogic practices and Indian adventures he was
always scheming on how to make a buck, as his travel expenses had to be paid
for somehow and he wasn’t about to sleep in the dust like the grunge-bunny
hippies. Sid’s favorite saying was, “If you play, you must pay.” As an
artistically inclined space-cadet Arthur never let economics bother him, he
roughed it when he had to like the quintessential vagrant sleeping by the side
of the road, and still Sid took him on over the years as companion and pet Antipodean
freak, in his kindness and his coolness.
Later on they joined forces in Kashmir, after Swami
Yogeshwaranand folded his summer yoga camp in the mountains, and it was with
Sid that he lived the life of a prince for awhile, out on the lakes of
Srinigar. When they’d first been in Kashmir Arthur had introduced Sid to his
old houseboat wallah, Abdul, and the two had gotten on famously, Sid adopting
the whole Muslim family and supporting them for many years. He got the old man
to tow his dilapidated houseboat out of the city precinct and onto the
wide-open Dahl Lake, parking it in front of the Shalimar Palace Gardens.
In 1972 it was the only houseboat that had dared to
venture out into the placid expanse of the lake and they had enjoyed a level of
tranquility and privacy unknown in the crowded caravan-park style of
houseboat-mooring that festered in the city-center of Srinigar. Poor old
Abdul’s houseboat was like a long, flat canoe with a ramshackle hut plonked
down in the middle of it. The shack had three tiny rooms, enough for a couple
of freaks to languish away their lives in.
(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB
address above and buy the book to read further.)
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| Shalimar Gardens, Srinigar, Kashmir. |
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