Or, Conversations with a Chilled Monkey.

I was down on Old Compton Street picking up some premium grade Bolivian High... espresso beans last weekend. Who should i see strolling-- well, flung-- out of Groucho's, but our good old drinking buddy, The Chilled Monkey.

"Aw, yeah, well, yer mother sauced my gob, Mick," he muttered, then straightened his tail at the sight of me. "Gnarl, get me a coffee!"

We grabbed a couple of chairs at Bar Italia, and started doing that watching all the tourists trip over each other on the wee strip of the sidewalk, or almost get run over by black cabs.

"Holy Halves of Coconuts, C. M, it's great to see you. But, you're looking a bit frayed around the edges."

"Aight, little buddy, this monkey's on the down and outs." his no fingered svelte paws still deftly rolled a Golden Virginia spinner.

"What happened to the modeling job? The girls who held your face to their chest and snuggled you? The Damien Hirst/Chilled Monkey Jungle Fever Cola (10 p to the blind for every can sold)? The Madonna Interactive porn CD?"

"Ah, the public ain't ready, fuck 'em. They're all after robot dogs and see-through washing machines. Hell, even the tart card promo for the Advice Line got busted up." His sewn-on silk smile seemed to crinkle down to a little frustrated frown.

"my god man, things are looking down for you." I was shocked, saddened for this little foam filled simian. I'd only had a brief conversation with him at the last London Noders Gathering, but just hanging around. I got the sense that he was one of those people gliding through life, letting the good times roll, and surfing on it.

"Not even, dude. I've got everywhere to go! I'm finding out who my real friends are, the ones who don't just want me as a plush toy, something to fling around the room or put on their head. I'm busking down at the Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood! Re-enacting great moments of organ grinding! here, listen to this!"

He broke out an accordion (or was it just a hurdy-gurdy?) and started singing softly, his paws and tails hitting the notes in an off-tune and haunting melody, his arms curling as he squeezed the box back and forth:

I'm under your feet
picking up pennies
spare me your change
as i dance

i look such a sight
cavorting tonight
watch me smile wide
as i dance

tomorrow's tomorrow
right now is right now
forget your troubles
as i dance

and drop all your coins
i'll pick them up
spare me your change
as i dance

"My god, CM. That's beautiful." The waiters all applauded, and served him a lime and soda.

"well, just a little something. usually i pull kid's ears and screech a lot. But hey, it's art, buddy. Oh, i'm off that banana skin shit. got to where I'd go through a pile of 'em and it was just like doing sassafras."

"nice one."

"Mother-of-pearl! look at the time!" He checked his watch (The Swatch 1995 series, with the Beastie Boys Airplane on the face.) "Gonna meet up with a Sock Monkey at the Museum I've had my eye on. Oh, the smile on her! and that tuft of yarn on her head!" There was a faraway look in his porcelain eye.

"good luck, CM. any chance you'll make the next gathering? Next weekend, and then two weekends later."

"Cool. /msg me with the time and place. Catch you later."

With that, he bounded off with a springy gait that lifted my spirits even more. Here was a brave little stuffed monkey, living his life, moving on, spreading his art through music and small antics. If he could do it, why can't I?