The Calliope Lives On!

Well, dear readers, it has been at least some five cycles of the Earth's moon since the Calliope has been whole, and, indeed, we have all had our own sets of adventures and misadventures, close encounters, harrowing escapes, trials and tribulations, and so on in that fashion. As you might well know, half of the Calliope is now long returned to our ancestral citadel of Denver, whilst the others are stuck, stranded as it were on this accursed isle of the United Kingdom, where the frills and thrills of the once-birthplace of Victorianism is just a hare too attractive to let our remaining expatriates escape from its vile steam-driven clutches. You might well ask, is there not one among you who is in actuality native to that accursed isle? And ask you might, for yes, indeed, it is not a myth, but Tim themostenglishpersonweevermet, despite being the most english person we've ever met, is an American expatriate. But, dear readers, I must decline the slough of infuriated questioning you are now conceptually barraging me with, for that is a story for another day. And I digress...

For despite the ten thousand and some mile gulf that now separates your dear Calliope, we are yet playing shows and telling stories in your friend's basement, or your friend's Grandma's basement, or your friend's cousin's mother's parlour room, whether it's in the shadow of the majestic Rocky Mountains or the (slightly less majestic, sorry England) South Downs in Sussex, for, like the steam-driven locomotives that once magnanimously criss-crossed this land, we shall continue to plough onwards, seperated as we may be, until the day whence our TALL BIKE WORLD TOUR is destined to begin. But, again, that is a tale for another day.

UK Bike Tour II

After comprehensively reviewing our current situation, we have decided that it would be in our best interests to ride north, instead of west. We deigned thus for a plethora of reasons, not least amongst them the desire to not cycle against the wind, and also to not be in Scotland in December, which is when our previous plan would have left us there. Nay, we shall make for the North post-haste!

On the other, technical front, Pork pie Tim themostenglishpersonweevermet has had to re-think his professedly foolproof double-bass trailer, for a more modest but commisurately outrageous bamboo rack to carry his ungodly charge. Meanwhile, Green Bean, Georgia Peach and Maggie Lee Weaselturd (Tovio, Magpie and Sarah, respectively) have had a collective total of five exploding tubes today. And we have done naught but cycle to the community bicycle shop!

We are nearing the day, dear readers, for our long-awaited departure! The latest estimates put our departure date at Tuesday. Tomorrow, we're playing a show at The Cowley Club (17 London Road, Brighton) with fellow American folk punk Spoonboy, and others.

UK bike tour!

Our deepest apoligies, dear readers, for that cliff-hanger which we abandoned you on some half dozen fortnights past. The past moon's phase has seen many new developments for the now-augmented Calliope. It has been some time since we returned to the United Kingdom, with our new tap-dancing mandolinist, Sarah, and our faithful English double bassman, Tim themostenglishpersonweveevermet. After much faffing about, we are due to leave this fair citadel Brighton which has been our home for the past several weeks, and begin to cycle west along the south coast of England, into Cornwall and back out, and then on to Wales, Ireland and Scotland until we finally re-enter England from the North, sometime in the far off future. It seems this bicycle tour will take much longer than any of us expected, and we imagine it to be nearing an end sometime deep into winter, possible in January. but for now, it has yet to begin! and alas, we cannot see what even the very near future will bring us, but wish us luck, dear readers, for we shall very sorely need it on this windswept, desolate island!

Return TO THE LAPPERSFORT!

So the tides of Europe hath cast this young boy once more into the warm embrace of the Lappersfortbos, nestled in a cosy industrial sector of the cold, cold city Brugge. In fact, 'tis a quotidien occurence to hear the lament from somebody, "Why the fuck do we have to live in Brugge?".

Nevertheless, life back here is as it should be- suriving off of the waste of the industrial park which surrounds the forest and food liberated from skips. and climbing trees, of course. and doing what we please with an old dilapidated warehouse building on the edge of the forest, in order to prepare it for the festival we are planning for the first week of July. this includes building a labryinth, a chipper, a dragon, a clocktower, and everything else that goes along with those things.

Hope, dear readers, that the Calliope will yet be reunited, and with haste, for however blissful this may seem, it is all for naught when one cannot even participate in civilized banter with Tovio. Oh Tovio! if it weren't for those meddling kids you would ne'er have been entrapped once more in the bicycle caravan! Pray for him, beloved readers, for I fear that he may yet regret his decision to continue south in want of an accordion, tall bike, kayne, or stack of galvanized metal bars.

Tovio's Hitchhiking Misadventure

Thou shouldst not attempt hitchhiking from Metz, France. I slept two nights there. One in a glade of wood on the shoulder of the Autoroute. The other under a bridge next to a pizza villa. I ate forest fare and stale bread and asked hitching advice from the police who spake english naught.

When I didst finally arrive at Le Tanneries in Dijon and I took off my jacket, I didst discover a cockroach I had crushed in my sleep the night before.

My first ride, from Liége to Luxembourg was with a classical violinist who practices her instrument for 8 hours a day. She says that her conductor will tell her if her 3rd harmonic is weak.

My ride from Luxembourg to Metz was with a German family who lives 6 months of their year in Florida, the other 6 traveling. They were incorrigibly rich but supported the plight of tree dwellers.

My first ride from Metz to... Metz was with a rasta from Metz who drove me to the place I had just walked 2 hours from in search of a better place to plant my weary feet and hold a sign. Communications had apparently failed.

My second ride from Metz to... Metz was a 5 minute jaunt with a woman who decided to plant me in a more favorible position, where I didst wait for hours before an unemployed man going to an employment office in Nancy picked me up.

In Nancy, I found a ride with a father and daughter who fed me chocolate and gave my life meaning again, though we could speak for naught for failure of language.

Thank you, Metz, for teaching me how to say "bitch" in French from the teenagers driving by and throwing trash at me. And, thank you Metz for reminding me that life is good because I got away.

Liège-ure

Dearest readers, the absence of journal entries may be attributed to a great many things, things great and many indeed which will scarcely be writ over in this hallowed blog. However, pray hear my tale of woe and redemption in the fair city of Liège, or is it Liége. I never can recall.

The Calliope of the Future travelled for some time amidst a family of somewhat filthy Velocipedists until I, Tovio by name, accordionographer by trade, didst feel a pinch, nay a searing burning pain in such a joint commonly referred to as a knee. A friendly Englishman was apt to do me the favor of pulling me by cord some 5000 cubits before I was in dire need of walking. Oh tall bike, why hast though forsaken me with tendonitis??

After a 30 kilometer walk (near 30000 cubits, if thou canst imagine) I found myself in the Chauve Souris, a delightful house upon a hill in the fair, dare I use this word again...Citadel of Lièége, Belgium. Kayne continued on the with the Velocipedists from here and I stayed to recuperate and build an herb spiral in the garden.

I have played too much Starcraft, as that is the pasttime of fair Lisa and Jerome. I have eaten much bread and slept oft.

I expected to rest only a matter of days before returning to the 123 Rue Royale in Brussels to help Reginald with his political party entitled Velorution (there is an accent in there somewhere, but as we all know, truly gentile personnages know inherently the accents of words without the need for an errant apostraphe). But somehow I have overstayed not my welcome but my schedule and I must now by foot traverse the path to Dijon to meet again withst Kayne and finally rescue my beloved from the cruel grasp of the great Inquisitor De Gaulle, who byst his very strange winged contraptions hast captured dear Sarah.

Fare thee well readers of ramblings, shall we again traverseth the fair fields together upon steeds of pedalled metal, after my fucking knees heal.

Dans la Coeur de Civilisation

Et alors Le Calliope, aprés sufrir longtemps sous la diable de la langue anglais, est arrivé au le plus civilisé région de la monde. C'est-à-dire, la monde francophone. Finalement nous pouvons exprimer nous-mémes en notre français cassé! Quel plaisir de parler cette langue, quand on sait qu'autres commes Voltaire, Baudelaire, Ferrier, Camus et Sarcozy parlaient dans un façon similaire!

Mais je m'écarte...Nous avons bienvenue aux Bruxelles par un malfrat qui nous a dit "don't you know you in the baddest part of brussels? "

Nous ne répondisons pas. Mais il continuait "what chew lookin' for? weed? smack? coke?"

"nah.." nous grommelons. Et il reculait, pour commencer parler avec une homme qui venait d'arriver avec un vélo qu'il evidemment a volé. Ils commencaient discuter de la bicyclette.

Après de faire du vélo au travèrs de cette ville, nous avons apprendu d'un squat pas loin d'où nous étaions. L'addrès c'était 123 Rue Royale, et au mème temps que nous nous dirigeons vers ce squat nous discutons de la posibilité quelq'un nous a donné un faux addrès. Mais c'était vrai, et ce squat de huit étages a été chez notre pour trés jours. Les personnes étaient trés gentiles et il n'y avait pas un pénurie de viande ou d'autre nourriture empaqueté que des supermarché donnaient libres chaque jour. Il y avait aussi un atelier vélo dont nous avons utilisé avec plaisir. Alors merci beacoup 123, et nous esperons retourner encore.

Oh Fair Citadel of Antwerpen!

Your packs of delightful children attract me (not in that way) and your parks of leisure are of calibre to rest my heavy brain matter upon!  Your Turkish markets feed our distended bellies so wraught by the ravages of days upon a weary metal steed!  Oh Antwerpen, where a young musician in the braided wreathes of grain gave me a sleeping bag since I had forgotten the -10 C bag at the Villa in Utrecht!  Oh Yeah, Fair Antwerpen, you was alright.

Antwerpen truly taught the Calliope of the Future that our visage upon Bicycles of High Stature rather draws the eyes of local populace.  We ate cheese upon baguettes in a playground, surrounded by mostly arab children and one Belgian girl with a cat on a leash.  The cat was named LaLa and was in a constant state of slinky escape, only to be pulled back by that cruel pink cord.  OH LALA, how I wished to free you from your cruel bonds, so that you might run free in fields of sardines under carpeted clouds raining sweet milk from the Heavens!  Alas, no, Lala, forever must you endure the touches of children in parks...

We rode on into the Centrum of the city to a Bibliotek and passed in proximity of a vagabond soup line.  We inquired of their nature, be they food-not-bombs or elsewise.  They were a christian coalition bent on feeding the poor and offering options for self betterment, and the meal was delightful curried rice and pork, and We Didst Eat, dear reader!  

I talked ecumenical and spiritual meanderings with the Christians, and they offered us their hospitality and a place to sleep be we in need.  A Rwandan man swooped in and offered the house of his Rasta traveller brother...

Again we found ourselves in the park where we met the jugglers who wouldst leave me with a sleeping bag and some cds of their band Kuskessarm before departing.  We didst drink beers on that grass and were surrounded by Serbian Roma children who claimed they were in a circus.  I fixed a bicycle wheel of theirs and they ran around sticking their fingers out of their pant zippers and thrusting their hips at each other.  Oh the raucous!

At the eve's end we met our host, Dominique, a delightful and wonderful creature hell bent on being a gracious host.  He has many cats, two who allow themselves to be touched in some way, and a large stone buddha burns a candle in the room where we slept, content with his hospitality, conversation, and vermuth. 

And so it begins...

After two and a half days riding, we have arrived in the Citadel Antwerpen. ´Twas a rather fatiguing journey, to say the least, and even as I write this Tovio sleeps soundly nearby. We guided our ungainly steeds out of Villa´s boreen in the chill pre-dawn hours of early morn, and began to make our way to Rotterdam, a city we knew of which we knew naught.

The ride along winding country roads under the pleasant heat of the Dutch sun was enough to lift our spirits as we rattled ever closer to our day´s destination. However our contentedness was promptly put into check when, upon arriving at the local Bibliotheek, I observed some rather discouraging responses to the eloquent plea I had bestowed via CouchSurfing to several of the locals. One woman quite rudely stated that she did not have a couch for us, while another said she preferred guests "a little more her age." After some frantic attempts at searching for any nearby squats proved fruitless, we decided to bypass this ville and set up camp somewhere to the south.

We stopped at a local Texaco on the outskirts of the city to satisfy our need for stroopwafels, and met a few friendly locals who seemed rather nonplussed at seeing us upon our monstrous velocipedes. Soon after we continued riding, I shouted to a local pleibean child as to the direction of Belgium, in response to which he silently shook his head and continued on his way. Nevertheless, we rode on in a direction bearing south, confident that we would have to reach the more civilised Flemish-speaking regions at some point.

And we did, after anoither day of riding through the strangely apocalyptic windswept plains of Zuid-Holland, passing what seemed to be the same flock of sheep again, and again, and again, until the fietspad which had cushioned us thus far suddenly disappeared and we were left to ride on a narrow shoulder along a highway, whence we realized we were in Belgium. We were truly in Jacques Brel's country now.

Indeed we are not Robbers!

And so we searched for the fabled squat of TNO in the little known City of Zeist. Lush and Posh, Zeist rests on the outskirts of Utrecht, which is also somewhat lush and posh but is no't currently keeping up with the Jonezeists. Kayne upon his tall bike, I with two destined-to-be-tall-bike frames held upon my shoulder, we didst jump the fence at TNO believing we hadst arrived.

We were immediately puzzled. What squat dares trim their hedges? we quandried. Within minutes not more than five, we realized our folly and returned across the fence to be greeted by the local Politie (Dutch for Bobby which is English for Copper, which is an Americanism for Garda, which is Irish for Police Officer which is too long, obviously to say with any regularity, though I do feel regular every time I say it).

I immediately apologized and said we were but stupid folk, confused by the sign in the front that read TNO. Apparently we had been trespassing at an Animal Testing facility, not the squat also known as TNO.

Well, the police asked to check our bags and commented on the great deal of dental floss we seem to be carrying. "That's an American thing, isn't it, floss?"

"I suppose, good Sir," I replied.

They realized that we had led ourselves astray and thence directed us to the actual TNO by way of spelling out words we were not apt to pronounce with any clarity, or decipher, good sir by listening to them in their phonology.

Again, we became lost, and sadly returned to the Villa to each spoons of chocolate and peanut butter and feel sorry for ourselves.

HOWEVER!

The next morn, I walked to the squat TNO, which happens to be not more than 5 minutes by boot from where we have been sleeping. Imagine that. The former animal testing facility is nestled in the midst of an evergreen forest, and I, with my two frames, didst traverse to there, where I met the fabled TB.

Not tuburculosis, though the austerity of such an artist as he, would make any conservative person's lungs bleed, without doubt. At the doorway to his fabled abode, I called "hello?" I hear in answer "hello?" Again, I called, and again, one answered. "I can't see you." He finally said.

I entered the house where I had been greeted by friendly dogs, onto the wooden floor and turned to see the glass door to TB's bathroom. He was in the bath reading an issue of Mad Scientist Monthly! Who, dearest Reader, has a glass door to their bathroom, save one who spends quite a deal of time in the bathtub reading Mad Scientist Monthly!

Well, I explained my plight, that I had foundst two bicycle skeletons and I wished to inquire of his alchemical skills in binding them together.

"Come back at 8 in the Eve," he said "and bringst everything you will need."

Kayne and I returned as the sun was dipping below the trees. On the walk there, we passed a children's summer training facility where lads and lasses and combinations of thereof werest cheering recklessly at the sight of our bike of abnormally high stature, brought as an example to TB. When we arrived at TNO, our host greeted us and showed us his pulse flamethrower. Then he showed us another flamethrower patterned after the cannons the Germans used to bomb England in WWII. He then took us to his workshop where, by magic, tools and artistry, he didst combine my two bicycle skeletons into one.

AND SO BEGINS, REQUIEM TO A DETHASAUR (dethasaurus death II)




I wish we had a camera. Fuck you amsterdam for stealing it from us. And my bike tools.

The Fair City of Utrecht

We arrived in Utrecht quarter past Eleven, Kayne upon his tall bike and I upon a not-so-tall bike. The cobblestone lanes were aflood with Easter holiday egg hunters, casually drinking coffees at any of the omnipresent shops. A 3 arm-span squatter symbol watched like an anarchist giant's eye from atop a building in the middle square, a sign perhaps, that Utrecht has a golden vein of acceptance for Calliopal meanderings.

Why do the Dutch sit facing the street? It is an odd quality, that when sipping coffees, they turn the rest of the world into their own bike-in-theatre. As a pedestrian or driver of bicycle, one feels somewhat on stage. I feel my costume is not adequate, mayhaps, and I feel I should ask the director for motivation.

But I digress. I will digress slightly further as I gather my thoughts.

They are effectively gathered now, so I wilst continue.

We made our way to the Villa of Henk Van der Deen, a local bard and houser of travelers who had arranged a performance for ourselves and another for that eve at De Kargador, which I believe translates roughly as "the driving alligator." It was a lovely evening indeed. The music was lovely, the crowd was extravagant, the space was an arched half-tube of a room, a catacomb of brick, and sound moved through it like sirens singing in the sea.

Cedarwell, from Sheboygan, Wisconsin, land of cheese and beer, was incredible I must say. I hope we may play more shows with him in a bright future filled with cheese and beer.

We rested Saturday in the Villa of Henk and departed Sunday, bunny sex zombie jesus day, for a squat we had but heard mention of in the neighboring town of Zeist. I carried an abandoned bicycle on my back, in the hopes of using it as the top of another tall bicycle.

About this squat...Nature is reclaiming the surrounding property, and the elves who reside within the man-made edifice are happy to let her. They also have welding machines and metal tools fill their workshops, thus the Calliope may BUILD.

Where hath the Calliope found themselves? In a Hamsterdance!

We were robbed, nay, shanked by bicycle hooligans in a week-old squat named "under the bridge." It was under a bridge. They took my tools, and for shame our camera for lo we would transport ourselves out of Port Amsterdam into the slightly more north part of Port Amsterdam, to the legendary of Freaks.

We arrived at the end of drive and I jumped the barbed-wire fence and searched about the old wherehouse, seeing nary a soul. I returned and Kayne and I transported our baggage over the gate and trees to a more secure locale so that we might dig deeper into the quagmire of trash and gutted boats and autos for a sign of human life. Human life we didst find, dear reader, we didst, in the form of a gaggle of pirates, some on LSD, others simply drunk on liquor and sleep deprevation. It had been 4 of their birthdays. That would seem rather unlikely, if 30 people didn't live in this abandoned wherehouse and school.

One party-goer walked barefoot in the smoldering coals of a fire full of rusty burned nails. A woman cornered me and with piercing eyes told me of her daughter and how there were bad times but her friends had saved her. We haggled our way into at least staying the night there, though we would have to go to a meeting the next day in order to be granted a longer reprieve from the anxiety of homelessnessness.

The next day, after an exhaustive bout of street performance and interweb research in the tourist quarter of Hamsterdance, the Calliope made its way back to the House of Freaks. The meeting was a highly functional yelling match in Dutch and English and concerned upcoming parties, the nature of casual insults, and the prevalence of dog shit throughout the fabled crusty lands. I made our case to stay a few eves. Itt was, apparently accepted. No "yes", no "no", just a healthy noncommittal. Our tent was pitched, so who cared, right? Thank you Amsterdam, for as one friend said "it's like they think they invented activism."

Past the Nissan factory and flanked by rail upon one side and ditch the other, we velocopeded our way to a squatted Harbor. Yes, that's right, a squatted harbor. Kayne welded a tall bike whilst I looked through frames for something to build for our upcoming ride to Barcelona. Dearest reader, it is truly a tragedy that we no longer have a camera. They have a catapult here, built from railroad ties and a crane shovel that apparently launches things into the adjacent bays. There are cob houses, happy animals everywhere, a huge machine shop. It's truly a steam punk's endless wet dream. It lies on the outskirts of Hamsterdance, nestled next to a Roma village, under massive wind turbines. The large Warehouse is filled with classic cars and boats being refurbished and has a simple, yet glorious name (for those of you who love your dear Calliope)...ROBODOCK!!!

Kayne welded, in that wonderful land of Robodock, two frames of bicycles one uponce the other and ghost rode it back to the House of Freaks for further repair. We ate peanut butter sandwiches by the eerie streetlight, silently lamenting that we had chosen to investigate the House of Freaks before venturing to the land that held Robodock.

Financial Fools Day and the G20 in London

The Guardian Clip of a gentlemen malfeased by police at the G20. He later died of a heart attack.



Oh dear Readers, what shall I speak of the fair people's battle in London?

Twas the first of April, and all through the streets, not a being was quiet, save perhaps the police. As they battered and pressed against the great righteous throng, they inspired the weary to break out into songs. Albeit, Kumbaya has been too often heard, there were also some poems both politic and absurd. We pushed at the back, with quite fearful peace in our eyes, open palms, no threat to the police. They battered and kicked with their steel-toed leather boots, and purpled my shins to tear up our roots, until in a moment we all sat, they quit. How bad it would look for them to bludgeon those that would sit. And we sat most the day until the night came to roost, and they started again, to ram our caboose. They moved us, at length, without sparing the whip, for we are the bad children on this sinking ship.



Earlier in the day, I asked a Bobby (as they call the police here in her majesty's England) what was his first name. He wouldn't tell. I started calling him 3, as that was the first of three numbers on his lapel. He was not amused.

I cannot speak of the long-term results of such protests, nor will I speak of the politics. Here is a set of lovely images for you, dear reader, so that you make of them what you will.

Tovio


A bicycle-powered generator making the soundsystem of Climate Camp into a formidable weapon of organization...well, if everyone wouldn't have been quite as drunk as they were. Still, pretty neat.







Climate Camp prior to the police pushing the lines back.










Everyone sitting after it was clear we wouldn't be able to hold the police back.










My valiant attempt at writing with my very power of CURSING!!! I do, however, wonder why someone would tape "cunt" onto a window. Seems rather time-consuming.









Kayne smiling with the Climate Camp party going on behind.










The day after the fiesta/fiasco, we played a quick set at RampARt in London, to a gaggle of the weary protesterators and they didst whoop and hollar, old chaps. One was wearing old chaps, in fact. We like UK, because apparently you have a thing for us. We've been hurt, we're sensitive, we like to see you liking us. We like you. Maybe one day we we'll make it a little bit more. Brown Chicken Brown Cow...

The Mean Time (because I get a little mean at the end)

Much hath occurred in these past weeks betwixt the rambling and rabbling of we two vagrant visigoths. In the flooded plains of Cornwall we didst play a smashing set of tunes to many notable Cornwallians, young and old, whose names I failed to note, ironically enough. I do recall the dulcet melodies of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists and, of course, We have no TV. The latter sang multiple songs about tea.

We stayed that eve in the house of Mole and Pete, the sawist and guitarspieler of We have no TV. We spoke of ages past and future, jigs we've danced or have thought better of, and of tea.

We set by steam rail to the vast expanse of London. Not so much is it a city, but a concrete ideology of meandering streets and pedestrian civilians, always under the watchful eyes of CCTV. There is one camera for every 8 people in England, so I have been told by unnaccountable resources. Either way, it seems like one cannot pass ten steps without being in the domain of a new digital observer. Big Brother, indeed.

We again encountered our Spanish friends David and Joel, this time at the Library House, a lovely squatted place with a nettle garden and roaming seductive cats. We juggled. Oh didst we juggle, dear reader, for hours on end. Our arms ached with the carefree lifestyle of the entertainer and we ate of broiled onion soups and bread, all delightfully freed from a future of rot and refuse.

We had but one show scheduled, at a dingy little den of sin known as The Gaff. Gaff, if you didn't know, is translatable to "dinosaur feces" in the local vernacular. We played with esteemed (somewhere) and notable (to someone) folk punker Jason Welt. He seemed nice enough, though the only word exchanged was "Cheers" after he had so respectfully spent our entire set outside of the venue. Jason, my dear friend, we have different audiences I suppose, and it must be hard coming from Sacramento, land of Meth and anger, California. An albino mexican junkie friend of mine squatted for a time in Sacramento, smoking crack and shooting up, and his lively stories of its iniquities kept me in rapture, until he introduced heroin to my x-girlfriend. But I hold not this against you Jason Welt. If Bad Religion were truly a religion, you indeed practice with your set of 5 chords and catchy tunes, and I regret not at all our decision to not remake your "working man" song into "working squid" and play it at the very show we wouldst share with you. By the way, most of the people there (out of the whole 15) were there to see us, and perhaps if you wouldn't have been so noticeable about being outside, they would have stayed in for your set. They took it personally. I did not, as I think we're quite obnoxious. I also stayed inside for your set. I'm not sure how that whole philosophy equates.

anyhoo, enough about you Jason Welt. I am sure you are a lovely chad, and bro, we'll spend some quality time together...next time, one day, and Allah-willing.

Galway and its Space of Society

Dear and esteemed friends, let us move on to the subject of Galway, Ireland. Renowned for its Spanish influence, Galway is in one moment the Boulder, Colorado of Ireland, and in the next, the Eugene, OR of Ireland. I have never before heard such a great deal of street musicians singing Joni Mitchell.

I arrived via Automocare, sitting in the backseat. Marion of Cork drove, her german mother complaining in the seat next to her. We arrived in the eventimes, and Kayne was well met to help me carry my baggage. He had traveled to fair(foul) Dublin in the previous week for a conference of Anarchistas.

Into the Galway space of Society didst we step after brief so-longs.

The show was a smashing success. People Meow Killed to the beat and found us a sweet reprieve from the onslought of metal mayhem we had been nestled betwixt. We retired for the evening, as my sinus infection had only worsened and my head felt like a Roman aquaduct full of whale semen.

Before departing fair Galway, we didst play a dashing game of Monster Cards. Most notably, I lost the Box that sucks all imagination from the World to a Black Hole. Damned didactic conceptual beasts are they all. However, one trumping concept was betrumped. My opponent casually said of Abe Lincoln "What, will your monster make his enemy his friend, like he was Abe Lincoln or something?" Such careless words were these, as I challenged him, dear reader, with my Zombie Resurrection of Abe Lincoln in Squid Form. He played Murder, represented by a chain weilding skeleton in a leather jacket. I held back, for quite awhile, simply using arguments such as "Did murder free the slaves?" And, only as my crushing and winning strike did I say "Well Abe would just make murder his friend," and my opponent did resign me the card. So beware, dear reader, for if we duel at monster cards, you have not only Zombie Resurrection of Abe Lincoln in Squid Form to contend with, but you must also face...MURDER!

And So Kayne Deletes His Myspace....

my dear, dear friends

troubled times characterize the world around us these days. highwaymen and bands of brigands are prolific in these parts. the local publichouse is astir with many a tavern tale that which would make the blood in one's veins run cold. the queues for the dole stretch meters upon meters; all awash with the commonry waiting to receive their measly pittance. their wry, humourless grins and pain-filled grimaces are visible under dirt and grime covered faces, all aglisten with tears and sweat. riding on our mounts, half dead from exhaustion and dehydration, through the countryside, we daily glimpse farm labourers collapsing under the oppressive heat radiating from the impenetrable clouds of methane and carbon which more and more block the sun from our view, causing widespread vitamin D deficiencies and existential dilemna epidemics. Is there naught we can do but sit and watch as our homes are fore-closed and our sextants repossessed, just because we could not satisfy the local tax collecter? But, ere one relinquishes all in the face of grim defeat, we must admit that, mayhaps, there is a glitter of hope here. So we shall paint our arbalests black, rubbing dirt on them to reduce their shimmer, and plunge into the night, towards the campfires which indicate the enemy's encampment. And the rest shall be history.


Thus, my friends, I delete my Myspace. But Wait! I have one final request of you all, before we are cut off from one another forever, only to meet again at Hood's gates, where all souls must go one day. Valar Morghulis. Email Alistair Reynolds, well-known Welsh sci-fi writer, and request of him that he allow The Calliope of the Future to play the golden lute at FinnConn 2009. His email is dendrocopus@yahoo.co.uk And if you would like to keep in contact with me, my email is la.jacasse@gmail.com Thank you for your time.


Kayne
The Calliope of the Future

Aaran Inn in Cork, Drunk folk and their encounter with an Irish Traveler

"The Inn may be haunted," we were told as we stepped through the stain-glassed doors. We were early, and our host apologized for his mental state, having slept little these past nights due to wearying studies and the like. The "party" had yet to begin and was comprised simply of a bottle of ale and the mutterings and banter of a few locals.

We, of course, raided the kitchen. As we stuffed our faces with the plundered stocked goods of toast and butter, we thought it best to practice our music for a spell, and, by the time we had fenagled our way through a number of tunes (and I had repaired one accordion strap with naught but a toothpick and a swath of fabric) a slough of guests had arrived.

The student dormitory had been abandoned by its regular inhabitants for fear of ghosts, so the like of every sundry party-go-er in Cork was apt to show their faces here. And we were the band!

Well, we didst play for them, dear Reader, and their drunken meanderings were a wall of chatter to play over, but we garnered a spare few who enjoyed our music. I believe they were cousins to the now famous Jules Verne of which, dear Reader, I presume you to be familiar. One purchased three of our gramophone recordings at a striking rate. Perhaps we are yet to starve!

Again we raided the kitchen. Our host entered and said: "Don't fret, dear Friends, but it may be necessary for you to give a hand in a moment. A most unsavory character has entered our dig of shin and we are strategizing a means by which to eject him. Please, stand in the vicinity and offer your assistance if need be." Well, now the night was becoming interesting.

The man's shape was somewhere between Iggy Pop and Mick Jagger, emaciated, a long thin and sun-dried crease of wicked smile. He wore riding boots and a black hat, a black jacket. His stare was a piercing thing and he demanded to know why he and his people couldn't come in and have a go at this party as well. He kissed one of his adversaries on the side of the head in the midst of a passionate hug as a diplomatic solution was reached: he would be allowed entry but his people perchance would not.

Again, we raided the kitchen. A young rapper joined us there and we held a session of banter as he searched for stray alcohol. We were content with toast and butter with but a dollop of jam.

We returned to the party but felt as outsiders engaging in bits of conversations, taking dips of wine, but simply waiting that we might have an opportunity to play again for a more docile audience...one we might tell a story or two. It seemed this would not be the evening, and so again we retired to the kitchen, but with our instruments, to play by ourselves and while away the morning. We were stuck, as it were, as the carriages had ceased functioning at the 23rd hour. This inn would be our prison.

As it would turn, we engaged a somewhat willing audience of drunkards and mildly entertained them as my voice turned to gravel in the pipemoke and humidity of the room. Apparently a number of others had set aside their morals for a fair late-night pillaging as well, and our steam-driven songs encaptured and encapsulated their deepest longings and desires. Still, at the end, as we played a final song "remember not more than we do..." our crowd departed rather suddenly and we were made ware of the reason (not for lack of quality) by anecdote:

"Oh, he always does this at soirees," she said in a moment of half-slovenly collapse. "A brick through a window, a good chase, a street brawl. It's downright normal!"

Normal indeed, dear Reader. The party had run from the house and we were left there with but the stragglers and our dearest host. The uninvited guest of the Irish Traveller had finally been expelled and in a moment of aggression had lofted a brick through a sheet of precious glass. A few chased him and beat him, and, upon their return, gave news that a group of Travellers (they referred to them with the abominable term Pikeys) would be returning to set the house ablaze and that we should make haste to leave.

We walked into the night, leaving but a single passed-out soul upon a couch, sacrfice, I would think, for the gang of Travellers that would be looking for revenge. Kayne and I stayed back from our three compatriats, nay, guides, nay... The word escapes me. Two of them were talking of their glorious little battle, the third cursing "the Pikeys" and we, nearly three cubits behind them ready at a moment's notice to deny association.

Our host asked if we should join them at another gathering of the drunk. We politely declined and he led us to his humble abode that he shared with some other students of his particular school. "You must remain absolutely quiet, and if you meet any of them in the morning when you leave, tell them we are the best of friends, indeed say we travelled the world together in a hot air balloon. Perhaps you should simply leave as early as you are able." He bolted out, as he said "My girlfriend is completely angry at me so I must go to her and amend, nay grovel, nay..." The word escaped him.

Performing for a mostly uninterested crowd of ruffians, vastly endangering a food supply with our ravenous appetites, narrowly escaping the severest of shankings (shank you very much), sleeping where we are surely not welcome...truly we are The Calliope of the Future.

And So Dear Friends, I Must Confide

As veils of sleep draped over my eyes, I overheard a snippet of conversation in the Dublin Centre for Community Seomra Spraoi. I was rather perturbed by an errant sentiment from a Local:

"I say my good fellow," he articulated at an ensnared aural recipient "if you book someone for the book fair, make sure they are of high calibre and not one of these American bands bumming about Europe playing one or two shows a week."

Mayhaps he knew not that I was enthralled in my book just cubits away. Mayhaps he realized my proximity and was meaning a nudge, a bit of a poke, as it were, into the ideals and hearts of we steam-driven storytellers.

So I say, good sir, whoever you may be who made this quaint remark: Go Fuck Yourself. If you want a continent with no Calliope of the Future, move to Antarctica, but beware, we have a scheduled gig with the emporer penguin and their army will slowly and rubberily trample you into oblivion.

Baltimore

We arrived in Baltimore the Weekend ere the Inauguration of the new American Chieftain, Barack of the House Obama. We hitched a Ride from a Man called Paulmer Setting- Whose Name hath been altered for the Purposes of this Recountance- all the Way from Cincinnati. He was travelling to Washington, in the District of Colombia, with the express Intent to sell Packs of novelty Obama Trading Cards. This was interesting because he had a McCain/Palin Sticker on the Ass of his Mule, and his Politics were evidently of the Libertarian Incline. It must be noted as well that Mr. Setting, Whom shall we refer to ath Paulmer, attempted throughout our Eight Hour Journey to persuade Andrew and I of the Truth of Creationism, however Subtly.

We stayed at the Abode of an Acquaintance of Ours, whom we shall call Ilana. Also known as 8** Powers Street (Censored for Purposes of Security), Edelweiss Pirate Ship didn't have Heat. Or, more Accurately, the Occupants of this Particular Unit chose to not Use their Heat, due to an Already Sizeable Bill. Consequently, One could see One's Breath at All Hours of the Day, and when in the House One was Compelled to hang out in One's Sleeping Cocoon.

Nevertheless, our Time in Baltimore was quite Enjoyable. Whilst my Travelling Companion Tovio spent most of his Time indoors, I chose to explore the Citadel. The velocipede I was Lent was quite Preferable, despite the Rigour required to go up the Copious Hills, for it wath a Fixed Gear. It also Hath no Brakes.

Baltimore is home to Many Attractive Sites, but for the Traveller on a Budget the Two Best Places to visit are Red Emma's Bookstore and Coffeehouse, where Radicals, Loveable Tramps, Children and the Elderly alike come to get their Fix and browse the Voluminous Tomes available for Purchase. The Other most Preferable Place to drop in is MICA, the Liberal Arts College, where it is quite easy to get a free Meal, or rather, many free Meals.

Settlers of Catan

Onward to the Village of Louis

The ragged Hound, neither Grey nor any other discernible colour, rode us (not the converse) south. The scent of urine and cologne-to-cover body odour was somewhat overpowering, but we found solace in fits of sleep in the unreclineable seats made of human skin. They weren't really human skin.

A half-day later, when we finally reached Louis Village we didst hike a great ways down the not-so-winding streets to find dearest Melissa's home. She lives with Arnold Schwarzenegger, in dog form.

Melissa served us a great dinner of fowl strangled, skinned and slaughtered by her very hand. She was gracious enough to let me chew upon the beak, by far the tastiest morsel. In our next days we explored, somewhat, the city, visiting the Louis Village Game Shop where the proprietor didst don us with fine shirts crafted by his very hand.

Our show with The King of Vessa, Peter of Fosco and the most-esteemed Kentucky Prophet! went off with not a hitch, aside from a full mug of beer flung back and forth between the Prophet and our Caretaker Melissa. Oh the vagaries alcohol will take one too, but after the undying strings of explicatives, etc, a stagnant sort of peace took hold and we departed into the night...Melissa to her chalet, We, the Prophet, our dear friend Matteo and company to an all-night pizza establishment.

Thank you all characters and subjects of King Louis, for what you have done for us. We owe you not only our lives, but a fair deal of money that we "borrowed" while you were not paying much attention.

I didst have a brief romantic entanglement as well with a gentleman cursed with a most odd ailment. At precisely four every day, he would turn to bronze. Depending on his mood at that moment of transition, however, one should be prepared for a long night of solid loving.