The Land of Lost Boys

by George Pringle

From “Lone Stranger – Tour Diaries”, Los Angeles, Jan 2012

I lay on a yoga mat, on the concrete floor of a mezzanine above the party. Careless chatter, a throb of Italo, puffs of pot rising – cosmic, like smoke rings instead of “Z’s”.

At about four in the morning, I got up. The concrete floor was unbearable. I could feel my tired heart pounding away in my chest. This, my own fearsome architecture: Arms flat on hard ribs and hips, all sore.  Surely this is the hardest floor in all the land…

“This land is your land, this land is my land…From California to the New York Island”

And only here in California, can a yoga mat be called a “spare bed”.

Only here in California, where everyone I have met is a snob or a scriptwriter or a wannabe actor.

Edible Hash,

and wide brim hats…


Neon signs,

Sad eyes…



Why do I remember pyjamas? I wore polkadot pyjamas all tour.  It’d been cold in Olympia, sleeping on the floor. There was snow on the shrubs.

I’d been sharing with the boys, who I would annoy with

my hairdryer.

My hairdryer,


My hairdryer,


I climbed precarious down the ladder, it’s rounded rungs seemed to slide me off. Merely a piece of paper in this, our gruesome press.  A grim expression on my face, my fringe springing all angles and wearing the infamous pyjamas, I hurtled, madly into the party.

“We need to book the flights to Austin.”

“Sure-sure. It’s fine George…We’ll do it in a minute.”

“No.” I said

“Do it now.”

There was an awkward pause.  A guy wearing a transparent raincoat with long hair and a beard like Jesus stared at me.

“Christ” I could be such a buzz-kill.