Adam and Peter are on an Excellent Adventure.

Over the past week, Peter and I have been putting a lot of thought into the history of bohemias in the late twentieth century. We have also been talking about the hey day of gen-x dude culture: epitomized by the satiric duo of Bill and Ted. These two sources of inspiration drove us onto our own excellent adventure!

If you are going to go back in time you need two things: 1) guts; and, 2) a time machine. Peter and I knew we had the guts, but the time machine...
We decided to talk to the people at the Home Depot tool rental department. Sure enough, they had exactly what we needed.

An un-named investor in the Adam and Peter project helped us with the transportation of this gargantuan peice of machinery, and arranged for its installation in a top secret Williamsburg warehouse space. Here we go!

WAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!

1st stop: Woodstock. Peter and I spent a few days perusing the crowds at this notorious event, and learned that there was a brighter future on the horizon. That future was up to the youth to create. It would be peaceful, and sex would be free. In the yellow shirt above, Peter is tripping pretty hard on a wicked Hendrix guitar solo.

After woodstock, we set our time machine back a few years, and headed over to San Francisco in the Haight Ashbury days of the middle sixties. Peter was hanging out with Ken Kesey and all of the merry pranksters on some kind of fluorescent bus. I decided to try my hand at some collective action when it occured to me that — if succesful — my efforts would have removed Peter from North America. My logic: if there was no war, Peter's family would have never moved from Vietnam to Canada, hence creating the possibility of a time paradox that may have resulted in the world's implosion. Upon this realization, I quickly dropped the sign and went to find Peter.

The sixties were pretty cool and all, but we felt like we should move on, as we only had the Home Depot rental for 24 hours. We hadn't the wits to realize that you can take a time machine back any time you like (as you can travel through time with it). Had we known this, we would have paid for a four hour rental, and not a 24hr rental, and saved 12 dollars. Here I am, having a cup of tea with the Sex Pistols and giving the finger to someone who may or may not support the Queen.

After our lunch with the punks, we decided to visit the birth place of contemporary dance music: the Hacienda. It was funny: it looked and sounded exactly like a lot of the parties we attend around New York these days. We felt an eery sense of deja vu, and decided to book it for a big Manchester Rave instead.

Du du du du du du du du du du dee dee dee dee dee dee dee...
Peter had a wicked time. He was acting strangely, and talking a lot, but he seemed really really happy. He professed his love for everyone and everything with the frequency of a man possessed.

note: If you are wondering if you can be hungover from drugs that you did while traveling through the past, the answer is "yes," as Peter will attest to. The human physiology maintains intact when traveling through time — if you die in the past you still die.

For some reason Peter misspelled "East Village 1980's" and we were taken on a seemingly endless time tunnel that dropped us off in front of these two love birds somewhere in the Cretacious period. Pictured here: Peter sorting out the problem with the Home Depot tech support guy.

Our final stop was Seattle in the heyday of grunge rock. It was pretty agro and depressing, but we got to crowd surf. Time for us to head back to the future! Thanks, young bohemians of all eras! Don't sell out!

Adam is in a stranger's Car. Peter is Sleeping.

Me and Peter are running out of steam here. We have a lot on the plate, and are also kind of sad. So we didn't go anywhere this weekend, but something really strange happened to me and I thought I would share it. Enjoy!


I was smoking a cigarette outside of my building tonight. It does not bother me, as I have never really smoked indoors.
A car pulls up, and a man with a long beard and one of those black hats that are worn by the staff at B and H. He asks me to come over to his car. Recognizing the possible maladies in the situation, I immediately turn away.
“Exkuse me… My English is not very good.”
I walk over to the car. He is portly, probably five foot six and one hundred and seventy pounds.
“I am from Tel Aviv, and I am in New York for a wedding, and I am looking for a cheap hotel. Do you know of anything around here where I can go?”
I open my mouth to inform him of the presence of a Hostel down the street.
“It is kind of expensive there… look.”
Here it comes, I think, the hook.
“I am looking to have a good time in New York this evening, I need somebody to show me around. I vant to ci uptown and downtown… I will pay you”
Not fully aware of the meanings of his words, I tell him that I have no business getting into a car with a stranger, and that for all I know he could be a fucking maniac who wanted to kill me. I begin to walk away.
“No, No! I am not crazy,” he says pleadingly, “I am Jewish. See zis beard?”
I tell him that as far as I am concerned, a Jew can be just as crazy as a member of any other creed. He agrees with me, but continues pleading, proving his holiness by pulling a copy of the Torah out of his glove box.
“I am religious.”
I tell him that I am privy to think that religious people can also be maniacs. Seeing sadness in his eyes, and the possibility of some strange adventure on the horizon, I ask him to pop the trunk. I inspect the contents for anything that could be used for a shady purpose. There is nothing in his trunk save for a two litre bottle of Vanilla Coke and a tire jack. His glove box holds no guns. I ask him where his luggage is and he responds with some kind of long-winded cock and bull about his uncle’s place in Williamsburg.
“It is at mein uncles, where I am staying”
Well then, you portly little cocksucker, why am I to show you around when your uncle could do it? What do you need a hotel for if you can stay at his place?
He smiles, seeing that I have somehow foiled him, and I am inclined to follow this tale as far as it will go, so I get into his car.
“Please don’t smoke, it is my uncles car, he is lending it to me.”
I tell him that I want to go get my wallet, and that I was going to grab a friend to come along for the ride uptown and downtown as he desires. He wants me to come alone. Sure, I tell him, I’ll come. But you have to tell me if you are gay.
“I don’t know what I am. Vut is zis… gay?”
Homosexual.
“NOO!” He erupts, astounded at the suggestion.
We begin driving along 20th street away from my residence at 8th avenue. I ask him his story and he tells me about living with his parents in Tel Aviv. His father, he says, “owns unt toy store.” Ah, I see. He has worked there for years and years, and saved up quite a chunk of change in order to attend his friend’s wedding in Williamsburg. This, he tells me, is his last night in New York, and by god he wanted to experience the pleasures that so sadly elude him back in Israel.
“Vat would I tell mein friends? that I am in New York but I never had a good time?”
No, my friend, we will find you a good time. I am feeling pretty jovial at this point. My nerves are jumping up and down from the reality of the situation. I had betrayed the first rule of kid-conduct. You don’t get into cars with strangers. I suppose this is what happens when you do. A little anxiety washed over me, but I was soothed by the notion that if it came to it: I could probably throw down on him. We turn right up 10th ave.
“I am from very very very religious family…”
“I never do anything back in Israel, because it is forbidden.”
I ask him what he means. Sex. Drugs. He wants to live it up, man, here on his last night in New York City, before going back to Israel and the oppressive confines of his Father’s toy store.
As we pass a series of streets in the mid 60’s I ask him if he wants to get a hooker.
“Vat is zis….”
It is a person that you can pay for sex.
“Is zis vut you do? Ven you need to have sex, do you get these people?”
I tell him that I have never paid for sex before, but assure him that it is very common. He shows interest in my sex life, and I tell him that I have a girlfriend. He has no idea where Vancouver is, and he asks me how long it would take to drive there in a car. He expresses interest in seeing Times Square. We turn right on 75th and then left onto Broadway. Most of my attempts at normal conversation (and I mean normal in the sense of not referring to masturbation or sexual acts) are thwarted by his curious zeal for the dirty bits. One could have mistaken him for a bit of a pervert, had they not known he was an Orthodox Jew who worked at a toy store in Tel Aviv. He tells me he is not allowed to get massages from women — it is forbidden in his particular strain of orthodoxy. I tell him if he wants to do something we should go find him a hooker and a hotel room. I was feeling entrepreneurial, as if he were my client, and I responsible for his good time. I told him we could find a good hooker for him. I am intrigued and interested, as I have never trolled for hookers before. It seems a perfectly hilarious idea. I ask him what kind of woman he fancies. He tells me that she should be young, and not fat. He is apprehensive. He tells me that he is a virgin, and he has no idea what to do.
“I am not sure.”
I assure him that it will be okay, and tell him to drive me back to where I live so that I can get my cell-phone and find a cheap fuck on craigslist. He obliges, but then brings up the idea of a massage. I tell him that he could probably find a massage with a hand job attached to it, if that was what he wanted, but we would have to go back to my place first to do some research. The idea troubles him.
“Vut is zis… Handjob?”
I give him the obvious answer.
“Vut is zis… masturbation.”
I explain to him the physical act. He becomes excited and asks if that is wrong. Fully buying his lost foreigner act, I have to explain the meanings of a variety of terms commonly thrown around in the English language. He asks me if masturbation is wrong, and if I think people do it. I assure him that it is okay, and that he needn’t be ashamed of something that he cannot help. He agrees with me, and seems genuinely aloof upon the realization that he is not, after all, such a terrible human being. He begins a sentence with “Mein Uncl” when I ask him if he speaks German. He tells me that he does not, and it seems to me as if I can hear German in his English. He tells me that German and Hebew are similar languages. It occurs to me that he may not be from Tel Aviv, and that he may be doing a poor job of impersonating a Hebrew accent in order to delude a 23 year old man who he picked up on a street corner in Chelsea.
When we get back to my house, after about 50 blocks and a trip through Times Square, I tell him that I will go upstairs to get some phone numbers from my computer. Unsurprisingly, he manages to back out of the hooker thing and ask me for a massage in the same sentence. I tell him it is out of the question.
Now there is only the matter of the money. I ask him for 40 dollars. He gives me twenty.