So I'm back to spitting again, only it's not smog-induced via scenic sojourns along Pier #3. I'm talking about grape seeds, grape season, wine season, hockey season (well.... back home, anyway) in a big little French town two hours from Bordeaux called Periueux.

After blowing a massive wad on Guinness, Caffrey's, Donairs, Baguettes, Perrier, Chips, etc., I decided to either get a job to supplement my cash flow, or else hit a camping town that's relatively risk-free.

As it turned out, I arrived in the south of France a bit too early for grape-picking season, but somehow my not finding aucun travail just didn't seem to bother me as much as it should have. Stayed in Bordeaux's lone squeaky-clean hostel for a night, split a cheap (yet magnifique!) claret with some other wayfarers, then took the train here.

While visiting one of the Chateaux in Bordeaux, I attempted to ask one of the workers what he actually thought of French wines. That he understood me was something of a minor miracle, as my French is rustier than Chris Cornell's 1992 cage. However, the following is my attempt to translate what he told me:

"Everybody has their own opinions, but only the French vineyards put their souls into the mix. Not the Italians, and certainly not the Spaniards."

I loved that. And then I tried so hard to think of the last thing I put my SOUL into.

Try it yourself! It's not as easy as you'd like to think, is it? Go ask anybody who's seen me dance (and while you're at it, tell Dong-Ha to throw on James Brown--"Revolution of the Mind; Live at the Apollo vol. III, tracks 4 & 5 on a Saturday night around 3AM at SoulTrane and tell him it's for Johnny), and they will tell you 'Johnny's got soul').

Maybe you're a writer, or visual arts is your thing; cuisine, performance art, whatever, anything. During my first night here, I met an Australian juggler who's touring Europe in order to establish some connections with fellow street performers, festivals (and ultimately to see if it's possible to earn a living here -- he said a friend of his who plays three-chord guitar bought a house with each chord [that's three houses, yes] from street performances in Osaka).

He then began to juggle seven crystal balls (each weighing about a pound, I'm sure) in some bizarre tribute to Bruce Lee circa "Way of the Dragon". Forget about awestruck, about blindness, and don't even mention skill; this went WAY beyond skill.

Needless to say, I became a believer. He poured his soul into those crystals with the kind of ease that suggested he could do it at the drop of a hat in a village square or in a firing squad line-up. We exchanged emails, wished each other well, then went our separate ways.

So I'm gonna stay in this little town and live French for the time being (-25% authenticity for having brought deodorant), and simply chill. And every night before I turn in, I'm gonna settle down with my pen, paper, tunes, and finish off a nice, refreshing bottle of soul.

bouzoukia@yahoo.com