When it wasn't raining.

I READ Tom Sawyer as a youngster--a few times, actually--and then went on to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Mark Twain was my favorite. I learned today that his pen name came from his days of piloting a riverboat down the Mississippi; "Mark Twain" being the call from the deck signaling two fathoms, or 12 feet, safe water, etc. And what does all that have to do with anything? Nothing, I just thought I'd chuck it in. I've always felt the best things are the simplest, most dangerous, and/or most ridiculous. Our little Euro-venture would prove this rule to be true.

SEVEN DUDES, four countries, two weeks, two days without rain--well, maybe we had three or four, but for the sake of statements it sounds good to me. I'd like to mention that this was my first time back to Europe in three years. The last trip was one of the most memorable in my lifetime, so one could say I was all anticipation. That is of course if one knew my penchant for foreign travel ... which you do, don't you? Sure you do. Anyway, there we were all lined up at the British Air counter and ready to go: Grant, our cinematographer, broken knee crutches and all; Rhino!, our fearless, ticket-less photographer (but ticketless just for the time being); Corey, funny hair and all; Angel, quite unconcerned with anything at all; Mike, whose mouth would not stop pouring some manner of word for the next fortnight; and myself, ready for just about everything and anything to go wrong. I don't call it paranoia, just a realistic recognition that when you start out with a filmer with a broke knee and a photographer with no plane ticket, things just ain't lining up square. But almost all good times start bad. Or, like the saying goes, it can't get any worse.

ENGLAND, FRANCE, GERMANY, and Sweden--sounds good, huh? Usually. But we managed to land beneath every last rain cloud hovering above the entire European continent. Barring that, we did however find time to produce the photographs you see pictured up there. See? No, not there. Up there, dummy. So that was cool.

After meeting the Swedish contingency of Sebastian (who would join us for the rest of our adventures), we were picked up by our Limey companions and set out for the famed Colombia Hotel. Nicely situated adjacent to London's illustrious Hyde Park, the Colombia has been host to more rock and rollers than the back seat of your sister's car. As the rain fell, we fell further into that retreat so often frequented by the likes of bored/ otherwise unfulfilled persons of similar ilk: drunkenness, as so rudely called by some. Jolly old England. Sha, as if. When it wasn't raining, it was cold and windy. We press on. France-ward!

I HADN'T BEEN to Nice before this trip. Nice is nice. We had a nice run of sun-shiny days that we spent in the most productive manner possible, and then spent our evenings drinking in the cool Southern air. On our last night in France, we ended up at a little mansion in Cannes for a party. The film festival was going on and, well, they throw these parties. If you like making people mad, go to one of these and start kicking blow-up seats around the perfectly manicured grounds and bouncing them off of pretentious, pretty little puffed-up heads. It's mighty fun. Angel and Mike were thrown out after five minutes--thrown, too--picked up and ejected like so much garbage. I gave my camera to Rhino! half-way through the night. I have a lot of pictures taken up girl's skirts now. Rhino! was also the only one to use the pool, something that was apparently quietly forbidden. Oh well, I laughed.

THE NEXT MORNING was a nightmare. A 6:00am flight and a host of nasty hangovers took us straight to Germany. Not much in the way of mansions and movie parties, but entertaining nonetheless. We made the requisite stop at the Kolner Dom, hamburgered in Hamburg, and toured the ever-expanding Titus skate compound. It's funny, I stayed sober more often on this trip than on any in my life previously, but the series of events is still a blur.

As the fog lifted, I scratched my eyes and, through the clearing haze, found myself on a ferry. It seems that we were en route to Sweden, swaying ever so slightly, slowly, atop the waters of the Baltic. Put off in Rodby, we waited for three and a half hours--laying about, waiting, waiting, waiting, and waiting. Paper airplanes, a small fire from the chips of an old skateboard, headphones, smoking cigs, talking shit, three and half hours. A van appeared; strange, too, as I'd forgotten what one looked like it had been so long. So we got in and drove for three and half hours back to town. What started as a forty-five minute ride across the sea turned into a seven-hour epic journey. Rain and demo, rain and demo; the most exciting thing that happened was an impromptu beer fight at a skatepark that left at least one case empty and four little girls soaked to the bone. You shoulda been there. It was awesome, man. Oh, one other thing. When we got in, our distributor/guide fella said, "I have a surprise for you back at the hotel." I thought he was talking hookers or a case of whiskey; turns out it was just Josh Beagle, who had lost his passport and ended up taking a free two-week vacation out of what was meant to be a two-day affair. Lucky bastard.

So that's it. Hopefully we'll do it again. Hopefully I'll be there too; and hopefully someday I'll find that fucking pot of gold I've been looking for. Wish me luck. Bye.