Vampire's Gun 


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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
Flowers on Tuesday
Galactic Milk
Angry Monkey
Sounds In My Head
It Keeps Going
Liquid Mouth
Pacific Highway
Atomic Dog
Magnificent Mile
You're the One
I'll Love You in Chicago
City Nite
Your Sea of Blue
Making it to the Sun
Blue Sunday
Chubby Mosquito


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`