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Title Vampire's Gun
Vampire's Gun
Rimbaud & Jim Morrison
About A Day
Alligator Sun Cup
Along the Highway
An August Sun
Unflowered Disposition
And I Let You
Beautiful
Flowers on Tuesday
Galactic Milk
Angry Monkey
Sounds In My Head
It Keeps Going
Liquid Mouth
Pacific Highway
Streetlights
Atomic Dog
Sunset
Magnificent Mile
You're the One
I'll Love You in Chicago
City Nite
Crawl
Your Sea of Blue
Making it to the Sun
Blue Sunday
Chubby Mosquito
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Pacific
HWY
:
Married in
Bodega
Bay
The
Renaissance
Stanford
Court
Hotel
served as our main
base. There was allot of hub -bub going on there since Al Gore was staying
there for the annual Mayor's Conference and Clinton was due to arrive
across the street at the
Fairmont, with Madeline Albright scheduled to arrive at
the the Renaissance later in the week as well. What a site! Dogs,
Gmen, behind every plant and fountain, snipers on the rooftops. Our suite
had a nice view of the city overlooking the Bay, but my essential amenity
was a the tel.'s in the
bathroom. There must be a television in the dressing room, and a telephone
in the bathroom or it just ain't no suite.
The
convertible arrived in the underground entrance of the Renaissance which
had a sprawling fountain the strived to reach the oval shaped
(Tiffany) stained glass ceiling that had a wonderful spectrum of
colors enhanced by the no fog sun. Sun is not a requirement - tend to
bring it out - oh,
I know it's always
sunny in CA - but not necessarily
San Francisco
,
CA
.
Our hosts told us it was unusual for the fog not to mask the sun
from the city at that time of year. But, then again, our friends were
witness to some strange events
- and looked for those type of signs – while
normal folk hurried along wrapped in their individual plastic wrap.
"Slice of Velveda, anyone?" Even those who try not to be
sheep and bahhh at passer byes
in the CA general stores are not really swimming against
the stream. They are now products of music for the (m)assess.
Further onward to the north.
We
all were panicky about not having enough wine so as we traveled 1
- we frequently stopped to buy bottles to add to our collection.
It was my friend Christopher Dowd form
White Fish Bay
,
Wisconsin
(just outside
Milwaukee
where that girl,
Kristen something,
from
3rd Rock from the sun is grew up). I met Chris during my brief semesters
at
Marquette
University
. Chris was
accompanied by his lovely "al
naturale" woman of his life - native to his new habitat - Lisa. And,
then there was my soon to be wife, Deanna. On 1 we stopped at this
little coastal town where Lisa said Jim Morrison
spent a drug induced weekend after the Doors played at a nearby
amphitheater. I was captivated by a gently kind welcoming vibe, and
became drunken from the charm of it all in addition to the three double
glasses of 12 yr. old Glen Livet. March onto the ceremony! Speckled sun
fell through the writhing limbs of lush trees as we drove along the
wrapping roads to the
Bodega
Bay
Mansion
. But, first, there
was more wine to be purchased at the Au Bay Gourmet where we found
ceremonial candles as well. Quite a nice little store in a cool little
town.
The
Bodega
Bay
mansion was a scenic
testimony to understated elegance.
It sat atop a hill overlooking a consuming view of a rolling dream.
There lay a quaint, quiet, well-preserved fishing village on the
verge of the powerful
Pacific Ocean
. Hors d’oeuvres
and wine were neatly set out for us on a wooden table clothed in white
that sat against a median in the wall that separated the glass doors from
the sunny patio. The whole house creaked a familiar tune of comfort, which
eased our souls and ripened our moods for heathen pleasure. The limo soon
came to take us down to the cliff - furthest west in northern
California
. As we walked out to
stand above the crashing waves, the wind blew with vibrant strength. The
sun was setting and the moon was on the rise. At that moment, we stood in
direct alignment with the sun and the moon.
We
were all dizzy with a strange emotion. Never having done or witnessed this
type of private ceremony. It was something I dreamt up as a child - minus
the nakedness and shells and
flowers to garnish our skin and decorate our bodies. Never had I felt the
love, happiness and instinct that guided us to that particular moment in
time and the beauty to follow as our vows were said
and the sun was sinking into the horizon, and the moon showcased as
the crown jeweled beast of
summer night. An orgy of food and wine proceeded which carried us through
and was marked by the melted wax of the flame's
late night hours. We awakened stoned and startled by the living day
that freshly engulfed our memories. We were no longer living in a
procession of sinful feasts, but, now we were blessed and united by the
purity of marriage.
In
the hills of
Sonoma
's vineyards, a
magical, pungent fragrance of birth permeated the air. Alchemy... Sun,
earth, air, soil, birth of of green life - vines - grapes! Red, white, and
purplish-blue grapes to be stomped for an aging fermentation bursting with
pleasurable toxin like that which seeped from the god Dionysus' loins and
filled the caverns of mystic maidens that relished his enchanted
secretions. Wine as they now call it! Fucking beautiful, potent, gentle
toxin, slow poison, enabler of mad action and
complete sorrows, passion, joy...Fucking wine like the blood of
soldiers and gladiators that
fought with frenzy for the pride and protection of
ancient villages.
We
were shown our sleeping arrangements at the Kenwood Inn and Spa. We were
guests in the master villa that was masculinely situated to stand guard
over this spectacular Californian demesne lush with full blossomed flowers
and thick vines that artfully draped over all tangible structures.
Even though there was no t.v., & no phone in
the bathroom - our
Tuscany
suite was at the
same time opulent yet rich with subtlety.
The siting room led out to a naturally fitting balcony that commanded an
overwhelming view of this sacred fertile land, Kenwood.
I
had a 5,000 year old ancient Indian cleansing ritual performed on me along
with a series of massages where after, I literally was in an ecstatic
state of being and seeing things that are hard for me to describe.
When I came back into somewhat of a coherent reality, we set off to
tour some vineyards. One of the prizes of this journey was the hike on the
land of author Jack London where he chose to erect his wolf house. Tragic
story it is indeed. Especially having seen the solid frame of his secluded
dream that still stands in his honor, I hope wherever it may be his spirit
now resides that this ideas still survive. I don't think his spirit is in
Jack London Square
, then again, I am
not yet privy to such information.
After
an indescribable stay, we were back to the anchor of
San Francisco
, Knob Hill. Our
Suite at the
Renaissance
Stanford
Court
Hotel
was nicely
preserved. I liked this grand hotel and admired the rich stability of its
existence, past, present and future. Our American royalty did add to this
excitement of the hotel, but we were glad to Venture outward, yet glad
again to have the safety and privacy of our bought
space
- golden. By taxi, foot,
and Larry Wagaman's nostalgic model Mercedes Benz sedan,
We covered the city -
feeding bums in exchange for entertainment and their
fleeing wisdom of what it takes to get there. When we saw Phantom
of the Opera in a theater in
Union Square
, I was taken by the
spirit of the West. The old west - trying to meet the standards of, yet
depart and distinguish itself from its adjacent land back east. Our first
argument as newlyweds took place right there in front of the theater crowd
in Union Square which was over whether or not I should have given a leg
less homeless person $5 dollars of our money. That day I bought my bride a
pair of Tiffany's diamond earrings I paid $1,300.00 for, and had a
fabulous $350.00 dinner at the Rubicon.
The fresh figs stuffed with goat cheese and the bottle of Rubicon from the
vineyards of part owner, Francis Ford Coppola, was a pleasant
surprise. And, the waiter asking us if we were part of
Hollywood
– was nicely done.
We left like a satisfied, spent lover.
-
John Conte`
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