Havana Black

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Dreams aren’t meant to come true - not on a regular basis anyway. They’re more like the fuel of life, the kerosene of the mind. Once your tank is empty you’re flying days are over. No more spinning out of control, no more crash and burn.

To be honest, we were lucky to get out of our hometown in one piece after the Eastside nomads had put a price on our heads for selling out one of their own. Well, he was one of our own, too, and all we could do was to watch helplessly as the Wild One disintegrated in front of our eyes. It was time for us to move on.

So we made our way across the big water, to that mythical land of promises, where many more punches were in store for us. Trust me, we knew what we were getting into. We knew the rules by heart and were prepared to follow them to the letter. After all, we were warriors, and the game, it was only rock’n’roll. All blazing cap guns and plastic roses at the penny arcade. No big deal.

We grew our wings and learned to fly, little by little. We were actually getting pretty good at it when out of the blue the Hunter came and shot us down, leaving us in the desert to die. Oh, our hearts were broken alright, and our minds were blown, but we were pretty fuckin’ far from dead!

Shaken, stirred and royally pissed off we crawled back to the Coast. Of course we shouldn’t have bothered. We sang the song and the Mystery Men of Redondo Beach ran off with our gold.

Oh, well… that’s all water under the bridge now. We lived the life, and we lived to tell the tale. The fool’s gold is long gone, but the Legend remains.

At the end of the day all that matters is that you still got your honor. And if you’re truly blessed, you’re left with a dream to dream.

- Tom Roudi -