ever since that call when I was in Buenos Aires, in fact.

May the 07th.

May the 07th.

the day I leave on my trip for National Geographic.

[if I'm being honest, I'll admit to still not believing that - even as I write it.]

but for some reason, the closer the day seemed more familiar, which was weird, seeing how such familiarity comes with things known – or expected. but not this. even I – as full of myself can be at times – couldn’t have ever placed myself on a train from NYC down to DC to walk into the offices of the Yellow Border.

May the 07th.

it still seemed like a big day – even beyond the train ride.

May the 07th.

I called my Mother on the night of the 6th – mostly knowing she’d remind me that I was going to do great and other things that Mom’s are good at saying.

‘oh yeah’ before I hung up ‘did anything happen on May the 07th to me?’

‘to you, honey? no I don’t think so – why?’

‘it just seemed familiar.’

‘it’s probably because it’s your nephew’s birthday.’

oh… that’s right.

Every now and again, I say your name. It’s been twenty three years since I learned it. It will go with me to my grave. Sometimes I say it just because I didn’t when I should have. Sometimes I say it to curse you, wherever you might be. Do you know that I wish you dead? Do you know that when I say your name, my blood burns? Do you know that if I could hurt you, I would?

You can’t know any of this. I was nothing to you. I was, quite possibly, just an after-thought; just a temporary cure for boredom. I was a wanton mouse in a field, brazen and exposed. You were a skillful hawk looking for an easy meal.

I had no business being there that night, anyway. I assigned an older friend to keep an eye on me. I knew that if I began to drink, I would be vulnerable. I would be a target in stripy tights.

I was clearly the youngest person there. I didn’t even like beer at the time, but I drank it to make the anxiety go away. It got louder and smokier and with my heart in my stomach, I made my way out on to the roof through the open window.

I still remember looking out at the city skyline in the dusk. The only thing I wanted in that moment was to be home, safe in my bed, falling asleep with familiar sounds all around me. The smile slid off my face as it occurred to me: I wasn’t going home that night. You made sure I didn’t.

I don’t remember how you approached me. I do remember that you were serenading me. In beautiful French, none the less. You were a music major and an aspiring opera singer. You were also twenty five and should have known better. I was but fifteen and clearly did not.

I remember the hostess of the party giving you the eye. At some point, she swanned into the kitchen to check up on us. Did you know that I was one of the high school kids? Did you know that my friend planned on taking me home? Had I been more mature, I would have seen that this was how you played your game. I would have seen that I was just the latest pawn. Instead, I was  a romantic young girl, inebriated beyond her senses, melting into the floor with your every gesture. You had me in the palm of your hand from the very beginning. It wasn’t enough for you. You were playing for higher stakes.

I don’t remember walking to your house. This is probably because I didn’t walk so much as get dragged along by you. I was the insect being carried back to your web. You would feast on me at your leisure, paralyzed as I was.

What I remember is this: coming to consciousness underneath you. Kicking and screaming and trying to get you off of me. You pinning my arms under my body and putting your hand over my mouth. I fell again into blackness, maybe from fear, maybe from lack of air. I will never know.

When I woke again, you were sleeping next to me. The ceiling fan was making a terrible racket. The sight of you made me nearly lose my stomach. I remember thinking to myself, “Find your clothes. Don’t wake him up. Get the hell out of here.”

But as I was putting on my sweater, you woke up. You acted like my boyfriend. You hugged me and asked me if I had fun. I knew that it was important to play along until I was someplace safe. You offered to take me to breakfast and I politely declined. You walked me back to the house where the party was and you tried to hold my hand. I said I didn’t do that, which made you laugh. I don’t know how I survived that walk, but I did.

When we got to the house, the hostess opened the door. She grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “Your friend has been so worried about you. Are you okay?” When I stepped across the threshold, she saw you behind me. All she had for you was, “You son of a bitch.” and slammed the door in your face.

I never reported what you did to me. I blamed myself instead. How many times have I wondered over the years if there were other girls? When a girl was found in a dumpster, behind your apartment, I cried for a month. You could have been the one. Maybe I was spared a worse fate than what I suffered? I will never know.

So I say your name. I say it with venom. I say it because it will never be alright.

-Tara Noble

didn’t know if you heard, read, were deafened by my shouting it from the rooftops here in Brooklyn…
National Geographic called.
called me.
on the phone.

and – as stated – there’s some stuff I can’t talk about.
but there’s also a few things I can.

I’m headed coast-to-coast soon.
in America.
from D.C. down South then alllllll the way to Los Angeles.
6 whole weeks.

but it’s not just a trip, it’s got a theme.
the theme is good.
as in ‘The Good Traveler’.
want to see something cool?
here’s the link to the page that has the name of the giant and then the name of your pal Queen as well.

they made me a banner.
THEY MADE ME A BANNER.
there’s nothing on there yet and I might get in trouble for sharing it but I’m sorry.
someone at NatGeo [I'd like to think we're on a nickname-friendly basis] asked someone else to make a banner with my name on it.
and they did.
and they spelled my name correctly.
National Geographic spelled my name correctly.

allow me one moment to mentally print that off and hang it on my non-existent fridge.

anyway.

it’s all about good stuff, namely: people doing good stuff.
food and music and adventure, sure.
but I’m headed off to find the good folks.

do you know any?

people and places like The Big O Foundation, The Tiziano Project, Caine’s Arcade, etc.
there’s no wrong suggestions – it could be an org, it could be one person.

but it’s all going to come from public suggestions.

so if you got someone good in/around that area you see above, then tell me.
I’ll go pay ‘em a visit.

let’s start there…

because this trip starts next Monday.

oh man.

we need to talk is never a good thing to hear.

someone’s breaking up with you.
someone’s offended by something you said or did.
someone’s watch has gone missing.
etc.

this was from National Geographic – this email. I could only assume it was about me splashing the big ‘as seen on National Geographic’ logo everywhere since my first article, and assumed this was the one conversation I’d have before being contacted by their legal department.

as I emailed back, I wanted to tell them look, sorry, but how often does a wannabe travel writer end up in The House With The Golden Border? and how could they blame me? if your band opens up for The Killers, then you engrave ‘as seen on tour with The Killers’ on every t-shirt and album printed, right?

a lot was said in that phone call, none of which alluded to me milking their logo.
and a lot of it I can’t talk about.

but when the phone call was over, I sat on that balcony in Buenos Aires wondering if it had actually been them, or an ex-girlfriend who knew exactly how to crush my very soul.

it took a few months to understand what was going on.
and it took a lot of contracts and phone calls and shared documents to make me believe it was actually happening.

but it was.
and it is.

and – in one week, I take a train to D.C. where I’ll spend a few days being pre-briefed in the Golden Offices.
and then – a few days later, I’ll be getting in a car they paid for.
going coast-to-coast with a video camera, a microphone, a regular camera and a pen.

because in 10 days, I go from being one of National Geographic’s siphon-ers…
to being one of their Travelers.

more soon.
as soon as I’m done throwing up.

as you might have noticed, things around here have been a bit quiet.
someone wanted them to be.

when I first saw the ‘warning!’ page, I assumed a lot of sites had been hit.
turns out, it was only this one.

things are slowly getting back to normal, thanks to the genius of geniuses.
a few things are still being worked on [audio players, etc], but we should be back to 100% in the next few days.

lots to fill you in on:

-a Tuesdays with Tara that will enrage you beyond belief.
-some big news on my end.
-some more big news on my family’s end.
-and some more big news on a travel end.

heaps.
and heaps.

so stick close.
and sorry about the hackings.

-a

hello from Tulsa, Oklahoma.

here’s what we got happenin’ this week on aqueenandcountry:

writings

[not as many as I would have liked to have penned, but so much of that has to do with the little guy you see below - my darling nephew. gosh, he turns me to mush]

- street snacks [choripan]: forget about what they say regarding the steak in Argentina. I spent half-a-day finding this spot, then the next 10 days revisiting it.

- [time] sharing is caring: a studio apartment in Buenos Aires runs $1000 a month. in Paris and Berlin as well. so why aren’t we all paying $100 each for 1.2 months of it a year?

podcasts

- aqueenandcountry – show 6 [bolivia]: want to be able to talk intelligently about Bolivian music? so do I. but that didn’t stop me from asking around the country to who I should be listening to. [and Bolivian Gypsy, for the record, is fantastic.]

videos

- h.m.s. absurdidy.’s maiden voyage - not so long ago I bought a sailboat. without knowing how to sail it. this is how that first [mis] adventure went.

- snacks [l.a.] - snacks are very important to me. here are the best in Los Angeles.

photos

- o.p.p. 9 - dig the colorization. dig the 1909 writing. dig the 1 cent stamp.

- israel ’10 - only a handful of shots from the Old City, but with places this moving, that’s sometimes all you need.

… and that’s it. much more on the way next week!

thanks.

aric

“I don’t care if the sun don’t shine. I don’t care if nothin’ is mine.”

So it was that I went inside. I did it fastidiously. I slowly gathered my things and planned my exit carefully. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. I know you understand such a desire.

It had just begun to hurt too much. There is listening and then there is knowing and sometimes, the knowing won’t turn off. It streams endlessly, hounds you, turns up in the un-likeliest of places. And the worst of it is that the knowing is just a feeling, albeit a persistent one. It is not words. Words can be challenged. They can be stared down. They can be picked apart. But a feeling renders you helpless. A feeling enters you and stays as long as it wishes. It bangs around and robs you of sleep and turns your stomach and just for fun, takes your ability to laugh and feel genuine joy. Your guard must always be firmly in place and, because of this, you will start to doubt everyone and everything. It is insidious and exhausting and unfair and it simply is.

So it was that I went underground. I was less stealthy in this, I admit. My strength having been drawn out, tested to its limits, I was less than and it showed in the smallest of ways. Were you not so perceptive, were you not always yourself on the lookout for something amiss, I might have escaped un-noticed. As it was, you felt me go, but were possibly too afraid to ask me where.

So it was that I had a long sleep. It was necessary. It was impossible for even me to go on in that state. I had been brought to the brink. I had made my choice and the only path out was complete follow through. I would bide my time beneath the surface of things. I would gather my energy. I would emerge when the time was right. I couldn’t begin to guess when that might be. Instead, I put myself in primal mode. I subsisted on bare essentials. I did not know if I were capable of bending, of yielding, only of surviving. I felt as though I had given until I had been emptied and having felt laid bare, I rested, fallow and quiet and still.

So it was that I relinquished you. I stopped driving. I stopped hoping. There was nothing else for it but to let go and so, I did. And what started as sadness and fear became something else entirely. It became warming earth. It became unfurled buds. It became bird song. It became possibility, rebirth, a Spring to bring me back above ground.

“The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs.”

Be Good Tanyas – ‘The Littlest Birds’

-

[editor's note]

anyone who’s read Tara over the past year’s worth of posts knows how much of a treat this has been.

so here’s to the woman who’s not afraid to laugh, to cry, to shout out… and to write it all down for the rest of us.

you got moxy, kid. thanks for having us along for the ride[s].

-

shame on me.

I’ve been uploading stuff, but not keeping up with this.

and now it looks like I’ve been slacking.

I haven’t – promise.

and am now back Stateside, so things will be a bit more normal… for now.

here’s what’s new:

writings

- ‘the f-word. and stuff like that’ - the terrifying realization that some people might be looking up to me.

- ‘restless. and need rest’ - 5 months on the road was too long. way too long.

- ‘street snacks - rico mote con huesillos‘ - peaches. caramel. cereal. Chile. done.

- ‘the stretchers’ - can’t tell who I hate more. them, or the cheaps.

- ‘street snacks - jamon sandwiches’ - not so much a tip, but a suggestion. [I love snacks.]

- ‘the aires of buenos’ - being raised a grandchild of the Beat Generation sometimes leads to drunken spontaneous prose. in cabs.

podcasts

- o.m.k.o.s. 4 - far too special to try to put into words. the late DJ Flanuer shall continue to live on. for as long as I do.

- rough sundays 3 [from the Florida Keys] - more gospel. more Motown. more Otis.

photos

- o.p.p. 7 - from 1957!

- n.y.c. [iphone] [series 1] - it took me a long, long time to admit that photos from a phone were worthy. but they are.

- o.p.p. 8 - New York City. and the nicest penmanship you’ve ever seen.

- colombia ’11 - from the mean streets of Bogota to the Caribbean coast. down to the border and a lot more.

videos

- kauai road trip - took a day with my superfamouspal Shira to some of the best spots on the island a few years back.

- Huza’s beer review - the quirkiest guy in Shanghai allows me into his life. part one – beer.

- good eatin’ – Valparaiso - one of the highlights of my trip, this town/guesthouse. but many make many a culinary mistake. here’s how not to.

… and there you go.

more next week.

[and thanks.]

a

as mentioned in the previous interview, the minute Ciscandra and Roy – known to tens of thousands as Nostalghia – walked in the door of my friend’s apartment in West Los Angeles, I knew they were put here to be one of those bright, bright stars that keep us up at night thinking about everything.

in fact, I even called it -’The Next Big Thing’, I believe I wrote.

and 15 months later, they are.

so amazing have they both become [were always amazing, but somehow became even more so], that I’m cutting this South America trip short by a few weeks, just so I can see them perform on March 16th. if you’re anywhere in/around the area, it’s a show not to be missed.

in fact, I’m going to structure this interview a bit out of order so you can see what I’m talking about… this – their debut video. and oh my god, will it give you chills.

as soon as I saw this, I begged them for another interview:

[start]

right – before we get to anything else, let’s talk about what went on with your mother earlier on in the year [it was your mother, correct? if father, 1000 apologies, I just remember seeing the post]…

Ciscandra: Mother/Father, same thing. But for technicalities sake, Father. He’s been battling Lymphoma most of my life, quite a trooper. He is currently and OFFICIALLY Cancer free, which is incredibly remarkable and exciting for my family. Experimental drugs, I suppose sometimes they come through, but really, I think it’s based in mindset. He stays positive, it doesn’t weigh him down. I love him for that, I admire it.

did this affect any of your writing, music, art? his battle with it… his beating it?

Ciscandra: I would assume so. It produced fear. Fear makes me uncomfortable. Being uncomfortable makes me write.

Nostalghia – Drug Lord

okay, soooooo – how do I put this other than saying: what a fucking year for you all! take us through it… however you want to. the ups the downs, what it’s like to actually make it as a band. I mean, from 200 fans on Facebook to 20,000+? seriously…

Ciscandra: At this point, I’m so tunnel vision, I don’t even know what my definition of “making it” is. I mean, I know what I want, it’s pretty simple and defined, but, my premonition is that, when I get there, I’ll be onto the next. I do try my best to digest the landmarks, feel them/taste them/love them, but, I’ve got too much to do to drink a mimosa. I suppose gin is a better shot to the heart, if you’ve got to shoot. But. Okay. You’ve caught me. YES, I’m fucking excited. AHHHHHH!

Roy: It’s interesting really, it can be difficult sometimes to take in small victories.  It feels most of the time that we have simply kicked the can further down the road.  But when you look back at where it all began, you (and the can) are a long way from the start line.  It’s definitely been an exciting year.  A lot more ups than downs.  But I hadn’t realized that we “made it” until you asked me how it feels… It makes me feel like it’s time to kick the can again.

but, c’mon – this many fans. the live show response. interviews from all over. a play on KCRW… there had to have been a moment when you looked over at each other and said ‘fuck… we’ve really done something here.’

Roy: Well, we are very encouraged by the reactions we have been getting, yes.  And we have toasted a few moments with a glass of wine or two.  But really, we feel like we are just getting started.

let’s talk about your best show this past year – which one would it be?

Ciscandra: The last two. I like to touch the audience, literally, shoulder to shoulder. Sometimes, I stand beside them, and sing with them, at the band. It’s ironic, it feels wholesome, it might even be uncomfortable.

Roy: Probably the last one, or the next one… depending on how you look at it.  We are always trying to make our live shows better and a more engulfing experience.  We have been a lot more selective of locations lately….art galleries, creative spaces and outdoors.  Ciscandra likes to (or more accurately, needs to) feel connected to the crowd.  Places where she can walk into the audience are best.  She will often ask the crowd to come join her on stage.  Those moments are magical.

when you do walk into a crowd, are you giving? or are you getting? I mean… it’s not a James Taylor show where everyone knows the words and stuff. yours is haunting gorgeous poetry, your words are ones we wish we could write, but can’t. Roy’s music is the kind we wish we could play, but are unable… so where’s the connection? do they feel you? do you need them?

Ciscandra: Both. It’s cyclical. A good show understands the benefit of circular energy. If I’m constantly giving to a deadened crowd, my frequency will eventually, naturally drop. All art is a two-way street. The receiver can be a friend, or an enemy, but not a sleeping giant. For Los Angeles, I’m relatively surprised how many attentive eyes we have gotten, as I think most are looking to forget rather than re-member.

Roy: It feels amazing at live shows.  When we are in the studio writing, typically Ciscandra will show me a new song she wrote, then together we will obsessively orchestrate the instrumentation, paying close attention to every detail.  During that process we are in a vacuum, a creative bubble.  All that goes away at live shows.  At really good shows, it feels as if everyone in the room is connected and breathing as one.

Nostalghia – Homeostasis Got My Gun

your and Roy’s minds work differently than others…. than most, actually. so does suddenly having a shit-ton of people singing along to the words inside your head freak you out a bit? or is it cathartic?

Ciscandra: Solid blend of the two; trance-like AND freaky as shit. Funny Story: A few gigs ago, a rapper (not just any rapper, I’m talkin’ down and dirty, nitty gritty, hoes in different area codes, sort of rapper) was singing the words to “You + I” [authors note - one of my favorites] front row and center, proud and pure. I can’t remember if it made me cry, or drink Tequila.

your audience must be – has to be – one of the most diverse around. who/what did you see at your last show… besides the gangsta?

Ciscandra: It’s hard for me to see specific people when I play. I see an amoeba, a very colorful amoeba.

let’s get back to FB for a second – how important has social media been in your alls ridiculously fast rise?

Roy: What’s great about Facebook is that it is exponential.  If you are doing something that people like, they tell others about you, and they tell others… and you end up connecting with a lot of people that you never could on your own without it.  But like MySpace, it most likely will not be around forever.  So it is important not to come to depend on social media as your only way to connect to your fans.  But, yes.  It has helped a lot.  Dare I say… I Like it…  ehhh, sorry….

take us through a day of Cisandra’s. and then take us through a day of Roy’s.

Ciscandra: Solitude, Coffee, Garlic Capsules, Vegan Cheese, Staring out my window, Thinking, Staring at shampoo bottles, Writing, Weird-ing myself out, Somehow magically cutting myself, Rubbing Alcohol, Piano, Guitar, Playing too hard on the guitar bleeding again, More Rubbing Alcohol, Thinking, Talking to people I don’t know and will never know, More Vegan Cheese, Making faces at myself while staring at my window, Writing, Realizing I don’t have a retirement plan, Not caring that I don’t have a retirement plan, Gin.

Roy: Wake up, Shower, Coffee, Listen to yesterday’s recordings, Delete what sounds bad, Work on what sounds good, Eat some veggies, Back to the recording studio, Then to the rehearsal studio for obsessive programming, Rehearse, Back to the recording studio, Listen to today’s recordings, Delete what sounds bad, Work on what sounds good, Wine.

nice. okay – there’s also a rumor of a few things… 1] Budapest this summer and 2] something about Nostalghia – The Opera?!

Roy: Yes, I heard that rumor too!  heh.  There are talks of a summer-long “cirque” style theater show in Budapest called “Nostalghia”.  We would perform the show in one of the government theaters 5 or 6 nights a week.  …(insert can kick here.)

Ciscandra: *zips mouth* *winks*

oh, now – c’mon. that’s mean. let’s at least theorize here… if – if – there was to be a Nostalghia-val [I've patented that, btw - big bucks], what would be going on there? performing art? snake healers? and a ton of elephants?

Ciscandra: Think Salvador Dali, meets Tim Burton, falls in love, procreates, births Alexander Mcqueen, fin. It’s a love story, aren’t they all?

okay – to the video. how in the world did you find a director who could almost see inside your alls heads? this guy seems to have known you both since birth.

Ciscandra: Roy knew John through a shared circle of people. He came to a few shows, was into it, made an offering (no animals were harmed), and within two days we shot it. It was a charm to work with him, a professional without a doubt. We may be collaborating on a second one in the not so distant future, if it’s in the stars.

I can promise that I’m not the only one who wanted to see it go on for another 5 minutes… kudos to John. let’s talk about ‘making the video’, as there’s some pretty funky scenes, outfits, effects…

Roy: I got to rub motor-oil saturated dirt from the parking lot of a downtown Los Angeles warehouse all over me.  Good times!

Ciscandra: Designer Maggie Barry and I collaborated on one outfit, the other of which I put together myself the night before.

you all are always talking about what’s next, evolving, etc. any hints about the next video? ideas? secrets? and if you haven’t already been approached to score a film, that can’t be too far away, can it? one look at your website tells us while we might not know where you’re headed, it’s definitely going somewhere far…

Ciscandra: Truly we haven’t budded any thoughts on the next, yet. I would like to create something in simplicity, less elaborate, a bit more raw. I think it’s good to have a blend of both. Elaborate is great, but if you can’t strip it down to the bare bone, you aren’t working with much. I would assume we would choose a more “precious” song. That’s what they call them. Precious. I never knew I was precious.

Nostalghia – Sue, I Cide With You

best compliment you’ve gotten in the past few months?

Ciscandra: From my mother. She told me she now accepts that I’ll never properly close the Orange Juice bottle. I believe she even called it “cute.” If you knew how serious she was about closing bottles, you would understand the greatness of this. I suppose I’m going to have to let go of my teenage angst now, I’ll miss you hormonal imbalance.

tell us about this upcoming show. details. location. etc.

Ciscandra: March 16th! I’m excited about this one. We will be transforming the space. The place itself is already incredible though, HM 157 in Los Angeles. They deem it the “Church Of Fashion,” it’s a historical house, pitted, and made into a beautiful venue.

where do you stand on people taking videos, audio at a live show?

Ciscandra: I, personally, don’t like it much. I think it is more important to experience the show, through your own lens. Live video really can’t capture that. And photo snapping takes me out. But, with that said, I would never get angry at an audience member for partaking in the natural progression of technology. I’d just ask that they don’t spent the entire show doing so.

what can people expect to take away from it?

Ciscandra: My soul. Please somebody take it.

let’s talk about your  and Roy’s art – is it music or this that is your escape? do they work together? or are they separate pieces of you?

Ciscandra: I paint when I have nothing to say. There is an art to shutting up.

Roy: I’m actually colorblind.  But for some reason I find myself painting on occasion.  I really have no idea what other people see when they look at my paintings.  But that’s not really the point, is it?

and what can we expect from Nostalghia this year?

Ciscandra: No expectations, you’re going to give me a panic attack. Just hopes. Hope that this album we are working on comes out in 2012. Hope that I am forever indebted to give you all of me, always, raw, ugly, pretty, and real. Hope that a large tour is in place, to share moments with muted audiences, perfect compilations of silence and sound. Hope that I find my keys, so I can safely return to the mother ship. And then take all that hoping, and turn it into belief. Belief is a beautiful thing, you know.

well, kids – I know you’re busy. thanks for taking the time. this time next year [let's make this a thing, shall we? our once-a-year catch-up]. I have no doubt though that by then, I’ll be speaking to your publicist. but having met you both, drank with you both, followed you both, and listened to your album many, many times on many, many long bus rides around South America, I just want to tell you how proud I am. and how excited I am to see you all next week in LA!

Ciscandra: Thank you! We love you Aric! Oh and, I want to read your book, where can I get a copy?

Roy: Thank you Aric.  Cheers!

you betcha. shall bring a book with me to LA… see you in a week!

[end]

well, wow – we did it.

yesterday, the beta version of my newest [and biggest] endeavor launched.

and people have been asking about it… so here you go, a little preview.

but we couldn’t exactly talk you into joining aqueenandcountry with just a few things up, could we? no way. to kick things off, you got all sorts of stuff to absorb.

here’s what you got for this week… keep in mind, though, that each week there’ll be a new one of everything… but for now:

videos

- Times Square… from my Vespa – we went to the most over-touristy crowded annoying spot in NYC so you don’t have to.

- The Great Mayan Road Trip Adventure Journey Experience – I rented a Jeep in the Yucatan to spend a few days visiting the ruins. I’d get lost. I’d get some snacks. I’d have to pay a lot of money to a few dodgy policemen. and I’d get Chichen Itza all to myself.

- The Shanghai Show – Pilot Episode – back in the day, I had this amazing idea to – once a week – have a show highlighting the city that I called home for 4 years. in this one, we look at The Bund, my maid explains local cuisine, an introduction to Shanghainese – the local dialect and I tape a camera to my moped and through an old decaying neighborhood.

- Seattle Drinkin’ Holes – while producing a project on this quirky city, I asked 3 pals of mine to take me to their favorite spots… and share a few of my own.

- A Walk Through Old Havana – that’s it. I turned the camera out, walked out of my apartment and around the neighborhood I stayed in for a few weeks.

- Birth of The Hamburger - we visit the place where it all started… in Connecticut [question mark].

- An Ecuadorian Enema – exactly what it says. I get one. and film it. [viewer discretion is advised]

- A Guide to Western Australia – last year, I spent a few weeks taking in Perth, Rottnest Island, and the vineyards of Margaret River in a campervan.

- The Ayahuasca Adventure – having been obsessed with finding this sacred plant ever since reading The Yage Letters [highly recommended], I journeyed to the North of Peru to find a well-known shaman, and have a private ceremony with him. what I could film, I did. there was also a microphone running the entire 4 hours.

- The Shanghai [Exile] Diaries – Trailer and Part 01 – Bangkok - having gotten myself in trouble with the Chinese Government, I hid in SE Asia, India and Nepal for 6 months. and filmed a large portion of it. [note: original series was shown on Current TV.]

- How I Was The First Up On Machu Picchu for 2012 – don’t know if I’d mentioned that before or not? my first piece for National Geographic? here’s exactly how to do it. from a guy who walked around for 2 days with a ridiculous GoPro camera on his head.

- A Good Day In: Austin – [my new favorite series to produce]. we show you exactly how to have the perfect Sunday in the 512. food, drinks, music, snacks, vinyl, graffiti, cupcakes, tattoos and drinks.

- Down The Bolivian Death Road… On A Mountain Bike – 200-300 deaths a year on average. scary. and I took a mountain bike down it.

podcasts

okay, this has the possibility of being a long entry, so let’s truncate.

you got 5 different kinds of shows.

AQueenAndCountry – I walk around with a mic, recording local musicians, buskers and more. or I find someone who can speak English and have them play me their favorite tracks. so far, we have Austin, Mexico, Cuba, Colombia, and Peru. [note: the Mexico show wasn't all about local music. nor was Austin, for that matter. but after experiencing the magic of Cuba, I decided to make this program for local music only... and then for just regular good songs, start the show below.

Tracks - easy. fun. 5 songs you might not have heard before. or want to hear again. my taste is impeccable. shows one, two and three.

Rough Sundays [re-release] – old gospel. blues. and more. so far, we have the pilot show, episode 1 and two.

O.M.K.O.S. – I battled with re-releasing this old shows, as they were done with a Brother who left us a few years ago. but I know he would have wanted me to, so I did. listen to the pilot episode. more coming soon.

and then you have the Specials – interviews, etc. first show is me sitting down with San Pedro’s most famous inmate, Daniel Foley.

photos

before I had this idea for a website, my original plan was just to sell them for $5 each. but now they’re free. download them, print them out, use them for whatever… all rights are waived if you’re a member.

- India

- Paris

- Mexico [The Mayan Ruins Road Trip]

- Egypt

- Vietnam [Saigon]

- Cuba [Havana]

- and in between of them, you have O.P.P. [short for Other People's Postcards. found them in this old antique shop in Philly, bought loads. all of them handwritten, some dating back to 1909.]

-

writings

there’s a lot. I like to write. here are some highlights:

- I love Otis Redding most. I love snacks second most. everywhere I go, I snack. and I take a photo. and I write about it. I love snacks.

- an interview with Augustine, the antiquated owner of a music-obsessed bar in Colombia.

- travel tips… the ones I didn’t hand over to NatGeo.

- The Yage Emails – I write to my Ginsberg [Adam Cohn] and he writes back to his Burroughs [me]. it starts out about finding this plant, but deals with a lot of other stuff. as of now, we have 7 or 8 letters posted. there are more.

- my addiction to coca tea.

- the loneliness of the road. it’s happened a lot this trip.

- how to go about bathing properly in the Ecuadorian town of Banos.

- getting into a fight in Peru. ending up in the police station in Peru.

- what it was like seeing my name under that golden border of National Geographic for the first time.

- Route 36 – finding the hidden cocaine bar in La Paz.

- trying to break into a prison.

- being broke… again.

… and a whole lot more.

go get ‘em - we’re 30% into getting 100 people signed up for this thing!

and thank you.

a.s.q.

hello.

if you’re reading this, then it tells me you’re either a] being incredibly supportive to your old friend b] interested in what I’ve been teasing for the past few months or c] both.

whatever it is – thanks.

will keep this short, for reasons that [hopefully] you’ll soon understand.

I made something. a big ole travel website. with a whole lotta stuff on/in it.

weekly videos from my adventures around the world. [right now, there are 17 of these.]

weekly podcasts – all about music. some local stuff I’ve found. and other stuff. [4 different shows. 13 episodes in all.]

weekly downloadable photo galleries – instead of trying to sell them one at a time. this was easier. [7 sets so far. including Havana]

weekly articles – I write. a lot. these are about everything. [too many to count. a lot about food. some about me.]

… and I’m charging $7 a month for it.

as it stand now, I could only afford one payment option, so I went with the $20 for 3 memberships [each month]. and, in complete transparency, it’s because I’m hoping that my tiny little group of pals jump in first.

see, I need 100 [paying] people [300 watching] just to afford this thing…

and to eat.

people built this and I owe them. and I like to eat.

$2000 a month will keep it all going.

then, as we get more people, we can make it prettier. as it stands now, it can be better. but it works. we had a test group make sure it did. it could all just be [and will be] a smoother experience. less clunky. tidier. cleaner. more stuff. etc.

and I wanted to wait until we had all of that sorted, but – as stated – I myself am down to my last few hundred bucks.

but then there’s one more thing – see, after speaking with the test group, we decided that making this a $5 for one membership option the only option. and after I have the money to recode the website, that’s what we’re going to do. but I don’t have it now, and want to be completly clear with you:

- I’m asking for you to be one of the first 100 people on board with this, paying $20 for 3 memberships… which is a little less than $7 a month per membership.

- once 100 people join, I’ll have the money for v2 of the website, which means $5 a month… which means I’m actually asking you to pay more – for no other reason than to help me get this rolling.

- but… in exchange, everyone who joins now will get a free copy of my next book ‘a random collection of the occasional absurdity’ once it’s out in this winter. or a free copy of ‘the shanghai [exile] diaries’ once it’s up on Amazon later this month.

so, if you’re feelin’ it. and you don’t mind helping ole Queen out of a jam [once more. again. etc] and into the next adventure, then join, would ya?

again, if you don’t like it. no problem.

but if you do… and I think you just might… then we can make this into something beautiful.

thanks.

aric

“The path was wrong, but it gave us hope.”

The ubiquitous “they” say the following, “People come into our lives at a certain time for a reason.” But what if they come at the wrong time? There is a lesson in this, too, I know, but there is also an intolerable amount of waste that comes in this. And waste tears at my heart.

There’s nothing more wrenching than wondering what could have been. It is irresolvable, this. It is stubborn, cold and merciless. It is a wound that refuses to close. It is a ghost that will not leave.

I know why I needed you. You were a real man when I was in desperate need of such an essence. You smelled like sawdust. You had the hands of someone who lovingly worked the land. Your eyes were full of stories. I wanted you to tell them to me. I wanted to sit on your knee and fall against your chest. I could see how it would happen.

Your rusty pickup was the first thing I saw each morning when I opened the coffee house.

One morning, you gave me a mixed tape of bluegrass gems. It felt like seduction, and I believe this was your intention. You were more than twice my age. I missed my Dad. It doesn’t get more Freudian than that, my friend. And if you felt foolish in falling for me, you did a good job of hiding it. You seemed to delight in tumbling headlong. Didn’t you know I was green and cruel? Didn’t you know I would crush your heart? Did you do it despite this knowledge?

All I know is that suddenly, I was living only for our Sundays. Bundled up and riding alongside the rising sun, we made our way to the farmer’s market under the bridge. We drank robust coffee, sampled artisan cheeses and chatted with our favorite vendors. And once we had all our fixin’s, we headed back to your house for a proper breakfast.

You were a chef and you taught me so many things about cooking. To this day I still sautee field greens the way you taught me. Still open garlic the way you taught me. Still enjoy the occasional glass of wine as I cook the way you taught me.

You were teaching me all the time. I know that now. It must have been something you needed. If I was ever good to you, it was in this role as eager student. I did marvel at your easy way with any manner of tasks; admired your way of looking at the world. I just had no business with my hands on your heart strings. I took your love and I pocketed the goodness for myself and I bid you farewell without so much as a thank you.

Do you know how I shall always remember you? It may surprise you because it was most likely a very casual gesture on your part.

One Sunday, I told you rather excitedly about a new wine I had discovered. I was over the moon trying to describe how it made me feel tasting that gorgeousness. And that Tuesday, I got a handmade postcard in the mail. It was a piece of cardboard with the label of the wine I had just told you about. You bought a case of it; suggested we get started making a dent in it.

That wine makes me think of so many things. It makes me think of gathering nasturtium from your garden for a salad. It makes me think of the pond you put in to care for my orphaned koi. It makes me think of the smell of solder as we worked on stained glass panels. It makes me think of how deeply I was loved and how I took it for granted.

I am all grown up now and I have forgiven myself for what I did to you. It’s just a fact that every now and again, a case of melancholy creeps in and it has your name on it. I don’t have the post card anymore, but I have that.

Efterklang – ‘Alike’

-

big things are happening with Tara. big things. keep tabs on her here.

different people come into your life at special times – for special reasons.

sometimes for love.

sometimes for support.

sometimes for inspiration.

and sometimes to keep you from being stranded at the airport en route to Rio.

the two girls and I laughed at the fact that – despite us not really doing the touristy stuff here in Buenos Aires – we kept running into each other. and you need to know that this is a big ole place. but 3 times in 4 days was enough and we finally all decided to sit down for a beer and get to know one another.

where ya from. where ya been. what’d ya like. where’s next?

then:

isn’t Buenos Aires nice?

my god, it’s gorgeous. I don’t even want to go to Rio now. I just want to stay here until I fly back to the States.

yeah, we know. we were just in Rio, though, and it’s gorgeous there. so you’ll love it. and after everything they make you go through to get the visa, you’d better!

ugh. another long line at the border? do they charge us as much as they did in Bolivia?

you don’t have your’s yet?

nah. will just get it at the airport.

[they both looked at each other with a worried look, and then to me with a worried look. I always get nervous when people who know nothing about my well being worry about my well being.]

you’re not going to Rio.

why not? I laughed. thinking this might be Americans being Americans and making everything extreme.

because it takes weeks to get a visa. you have to get a certain type of photo, print out your bank statements, show a scan or copy of your last check from your employer, have a hotel booked and then pay $160.

I had none of those things.

and this is when my well being began to worry about my own well being. ’cause, see – my flight back to the States. the big ole expensive one that set me back I-don’t-even-want-to-tell-you-how-much… was from Rio.

but I remained calm. mostly because they were both good-looking and I wanted to appear tough.

guess I’ll just have to buy another cheap flight from here to Rio the same day and just get on my flight then.

the good-looking girls went back to being the worried girls.

they won’t let you on the plane here without a visa for there.

I suddenly stopped caring about being tough.

there isn’t money in my account for another I-don’t-want-to-tell-you-how-much flight. I spent that already on the first one.

I had a flight booked from here to Rio on Saturday.

and then from Rio to LAX a few days later.

there wasn’t going to be a visa.

and there wasn’t going to be a flight.

now, thank the man upstairs it was Sunday and nothing could be done. this gave me a chance to very calmly, very strategically and very methodically, get very, very drunk.

I seriously had nowhere to go. and no means to do it with. the last time I was this worried about actually making it out was Ethiopia a few years back.

do I go the Brazilian Embassy and wax [ahem] poetic about my own stupidity and see if they could expedite one?

could I beg them to let me on the flight and just live in the airport for 4 days?

or…

do I go to the airlines and see how much it would be to change my Rio-Panama-LAX flight to Buenos Aires-Panama-LAX?

I chose the latter. because I love it here, it would be less hassle and fuck Brazil. they should post stuff like this all over travel websites. [note: they post this stuff all over travel websites].

so, to the airline office I went.

‘how much to change the flight?’ I asked in the nicest voice my hangover would allow.

‘we don’t fly from Buenos Aires to LAX.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. this is Buenos Aires! everything is perfect and beautiful and delicious! nothing ever goes wrong!

‘how much for a flight to Panama? and then I can just get my connecting flight there?’

‘you won’t be allowed on the plane if you miss your first flight.’

had I eaten any snacks the night before amidst my wine bender, this is where I would have pooped myself a little.

‘then what do I do?’

‘well, to fly from here to LAX will be $950′.

I was about $500 short of that.

a grey beard. broke. I stunk. toothpaste stains on my shorts. alone. homeless. 35…

and I’m about to have to call Mom and Dad for a flight home.

and just a week or so before, I was talking someone through his transitioning phase, telling him that ‘when it gets rough, that’s when you really have the adventure! that’s when you really get to know yourself!’

I had no interest in an adventure, nor in getting to know myself.

‘is there anything you would suggest?’- pleading.

‘well… there is one thing you can do. take a boat to Uruguay, then you could fly from there to Panama, Panama to Los Angeles. it would cost you $240.’

I handed her my card, praying there was enough. last time I checked, it was around $250.

turns out I had $224. but that’s why we have overdraft protection.

so there you go. I have to find a boat to a new country, pray they don’t have the same tastes in visa requirements as their neighbor to the north… and make my $262 in cash last for 9 more days.

and $10 of that goes to buying each of the girls a bottle of wine.

’cause lemme tell ya… finding this all out at the airport the day of would have been a kick in the pants.

a

p.s. both the timing and irony of my 2nd article for National Geographic making their home page being all about me – the seasoned traveler – sharing some tips from my wise learned mind is amazing.

p.p.s. sadly, having ended up in this situation many a time, I know a select few of you will do what you always do and ask if I need money. I do not. there are some cheques on the way to my account from a few clients – a few clients who ironically chose this month to be the time when they were late with their payments. and, well, tomorrow or the next day, the new travel project launches, which you can help support. so send nothing, except potty-mouth letters to Rio… stupid Rio.

[hit play before reading. it works better that way.]

[ryan adams - 'la cienega just smiled']

I stood there, on that terrace, for one final cigarette.

it was a quiet one, and maybe that’s what seemed strange, as it was this spot that had loudly set the stage for the past 5 night’s worth of a million.

see, sometimes you stumble upon a magical place. and sometimes you find magical people. but rarely do the two ever show up at the same time. but sometimes they do. and when they do, and when the podium is set upon a hundred used wine bottles from the vineyards you can see just past the fishing boats from where we would sit night-after-night, opening one-after-another, it becomes something more than just ‘a few people who met while traveling’.

if I’m being honest, my heart hurt a little bit this afternoon when I was taken to the bus station by the hostel owner. I’m glad his wife wasn’t there to hug me by or I might have fought back a tear. or maybe I wouldn’t have fought it back at all.

but there was something about this place.

there were a lot of us, but there were 4 of us. the ones that would stay up the latest, finish the most wine, say all the worst words. maybe we ran some people off, and that’s okay. at times the 4 of us were more than 4. we had our different sides that would come out at different times. and with that much carmenere, with that much sauvignon blanc, it wasn’t always clear who we were talking to.

but that’s not what mattered. what mattered was that at any given time, those 8 – possibly even 12 – people got on.

and got on well.

my cigarette halfway finished, tar and melancholy combined for a heart heavy to say goodbye to our ritual. a nightly debauchery of the 4-8-12 of our quartet.

the first – a man conflicted in his own transitions, transitioning through his own conflicts – wanting to take as much as he could out of his unique position, but at the same time fighting the tranquility of where he found. then there were the two – a ying and yang with loud Adelaide accents. one spent too much time on her empanadas when she should have been prepping the dinner, over-thinking snacks when it was the stock she should have been starting. the other had a new life, a new destination and a new plan each new day – this idea and that dream, this possibility and that reality. I bought her a box of gum, ’cause I was sad to her leave. she didn’t say ‘thanks’  until the morning she left, but it was worth the wait. and then, there was me – the person who hadn’t personalized with too many persons on this trip – enjoying, for the most part, the solitude. but from the minute everyone sat down that first evening, I suddenly wondered if I’d been missing things like this these past 5 months.

but I thought back on my past adventures and realized I hadn’t missed out on anything, as this doesn’t happen often.

great things in great places with great people don’t often meet – not often at all.

different groups bring different things, but our nightly intoxicated bipolar show made sure all ends were covered.

my cigarette was almost done, and the more I thought about it, the harder it was to pull myself away from it all.

that empty stained terrace. overlooking the colorful city we saw so little of. my hair that still smelled of barbecue ash.

I was really sad to leave.

and maybe the town had a lot to do with it, a mix of a Berkley student – full of color and mentality – with an uncle from Havana. that’s probably what made the man and wife decide that this place – this spot – this street – was where they would build something beautiful. his favorite movie was Field of Dreams, so that should explain what needs explaining. she, an immediate mother to any who walked through her doors – standing there waiting for each traveler to get out of the cab or bus, kissing us each every morning, every night and making the biggest deal out of the wine glasses we gave her on that last night.

and I mean – a big deal.

she shouted when she opened the boxes, hugging her husband as if they topped her Christmas list.

taking out one at a time with the slowest of movements,

pouring us all a wine and then holding it up, looking through it smiling.

the four of us – standing close to one another – could all see her smiling, because we could see through her glass.

they were only a few packs of cheap wine glasses,

but you would have thought they were made of crystal.

taking one last drag of that view, on that terrace, I teared up and I couldn’t figure out why.

it might have been the fact that I was coming down from a 5 day bender.

it might have been the view.

it might have been the gum.

it could have been a lot of things.

and I didn’t figure it out until I put my cigarette out and went to the kitchen to wash my hands.

there was a handmade wine rack where yesterday, there wasn’t.

I wished everyone could have seen it before they left.

but in that wine rack was where in there it all made sense – what it was that had given me a lot, but also had taken away quite a bit from me as well.

the reason I was blue had nothing to do with the wine - it was those new wine glasses.

they too were bipolar.

see, what we saw in them the night before was a lady smiling.

but what she witnessed through hers were four people – four people who needed one another at the same time. in the same place.

her shout had nothing to do with the gift, it had to do with what they had achieved with their terrace.

one look at our deranged inseparable group was what made her hug her husband tightly.

they did it.

they had made a place with something special. that called out to special people.

they had built it and we had come. to play our deviant game of nocturnal vocal baseball - all-stars the night before became ghosts the next morning.

that’s when it finally all made sense.

why I left with a heavy heart.

it was those new wine glasses.

and through them – as opposed to what was inside them – lay the magic.

as it turns out, they were made of crystal.

“I am a marathon runner and my legs are sore and I am anxious to see what it is I’m runnin’ for.”

There is no amount of preparation that will save you from uncertain emotion. There is no amount of soul searching that will prepare you for the damned unpredictable. There is no amount of self reflection that will save you from apathy or fear or fear disguised as apathy. No, these things, all, will have their way with you.

There were so many nights that felt the same on some level. There was the drinking, of course. The opening of a bottle and the decision to unravel are only the opening stages. The music is important. Silence is not your friend in this frame of mind. No, when choosing to teeter on a dangerous precipice inside your mind, one needs an anchor. Attach yourself to that anchor and go forth.

For me, there are always tears. They come on gently at first. They tickle my cheeks, slide their way into my ear where they pool listlessly. And I don’t know what causes me to cross over to hysterics, but once my chest begins to heave, once my breast bears too much weight, I gasp for air, I empty my lungs, and I wish for it all to go away, this pain. Just make it go away. I didn’t want any of this, so why do I keep falling in the same place?

I stand tall and strong, head held aloft. I look at you hard and I am thinking, “I may not be invincible, but I am not going to bring you down.” I am beyond the selfish means of an emotional drifter. I do not want to drag you through anything. I want to make you smile to yourself. I want you to feel a warmth curl through your body when you think of me. It doesn’t seem too much to ask. It seems really so very simple to me.  I want to love you and I want you to let me.

There is a lack of control that paralyzes you at the beginning. I cannot change anything that you are saying to me. These words, hurtful as they are, are your truth. They are your reality. They are from the source of your hidden heart. You give them to me. It is a gift wrapped in disaster. They will rip me apart, those words, and yet I must receive them. After all, I told you I was in this with you. I didn’t say I was in this so long as it was good, so long as it seemed a dream.  And when I said that I wanted to stand by you, this isn’t the scenario I had in mind, I’ll be honest. But it’s not scripted. None of this was predicted, and yet all of this was possible.

We are here now. We are in it. When I can still couch terms in “we”, shouldn’t I feel relief? When hysteria makes way for sheer uncertainty, where is the victory? There is only to go forward.

It is all we have, aside from a whole lot of love and a couple of busted up hearts.

Yellow Ostrich - ‘Marathon Runner’

—

there’s 49 more of these – if my math is correct. there’s also a book deal officially being talked about. and if I could trade the emails between Tara and I, I would… but trust that girl is deep. and funny. like – in real life like. the stuff above is how she is, and I can bet you it’s spontaneous prose, with no edits [except for grammar - cause she's into shit like good grammar.] 

aric