This is a series of impressions gathered in the summer of 2005 in Lawrence, Kansas, from several encounters with Bomstad, a guitarist and composer. Bomstad is a 28 year old Norwegian-American from Minnesota. When he is very drunk, which is frequently, he flattens his Os and blunts his Ts (example: “Yah, I’m a Minnesewden; from Minnesewda, yah? Lodsa fad bidches dere.”)

In spring of 2000, Bomstad arrived in Lawrence, Kansas, via the jails of Wichita and the bayous of Arkansas. He claims an education. “I came here because I heard this bullshit oasis needs some fucking negritude,” Bomstad spits. He is, in skin tone, near albinism.

Bomstad expectorates frequently and dramatically, due to unusually sensitive stomach enzymes. Also, he sprays his testicles with apple cider vinegar and is prone to fainting in bars. The savvier barflies claim that Bomstad’s swoons are mere stunts, devices for attention, to which Bomstad replies: “The next time I faint those guys should take out my dick and suck it. I won’t even know. That way they can keep on believing they’re not gay.”

Bomstad’s favorite facial expression is an unflinching sneer. His features are boyish, his eyes beady, hooded by golden brows, an air schizophrenic. Bomstad walks like a zombie, a measured step, then a measured step; most people assume he is either hypnotized or tripping. In profile, he is an Easter Island statue, head tilted upwards, with Frankenstein bangs, liver lips and a ski-jump nose. Yet there is also an undeniable charisma, fire and water, a handsomeness that is weird and unsettling and as compelling as a fresh car wreck.

Dick

“Crowley, Yeats, Baudelaire, Ouspensky,” recites Bomstad. “I read them all before I was twelve. But that’s only one reason I’m a famous cocksman.”

In the preliminaries of interviewing, Bomstad discloses that he, rarely a dreamer, has been experiencing the most vivid and colorful of dreams. He remembers every detail, and faithfully keeps a dream journal. I ask him if he had any ideas about his dreams. “I think its absolute proof of my imminent intellectual and spiritual transcendence,” Bomstad explains. “I’m leaving you sad shits behind.”

June 2005: I ask Bomstad to e-mail an excerpt from his dream journal. With the following, he obliges:

(Sitting with an ancient Rasta by a campfire)

Rasta: Have you known plenty lentils, rasta?

Bomstad: I have; I know lentils.

Rasta: And the HP sauce—do you know it too?

Bomstad: I know it. And I like it.

Rasta: The chili style?

Bomstad: I like it like ganja.

Rasta: Are you a batty man?

Bomstad: I like Evan Williams. The Stooges.

Rasta: Bob Marley?

Bomstad: Wanker.

Rasta: Then what can you tell I and I of harmelodics?

Bomstad: Sun Ra, number one. Of course Ornette Coleman. James Blood Ulmer…

Rasta: And tell I now, what do you fear?

Bomstad: Germs. But I have vinegar.

Rasta: Give thanks.

Over dinner at Burrito King—his treat—I ask him: “You really think you’re something, don’t you Bomstad?” His expression turns beatific and he throws around a bunch of words like “eucharis” and “avatar.” He declares: “My brain is three times sharper than Gurdjieff’s. That moron. You should hear me play guitar when I’m metaphysically fucked up. Shit! I think there are weird enzymes in my taco.” Then Bomstad snaps his fingers at a waitress who isn’t there.

In warm weather Bomstad walks around downtown with his shirt off. He has a defined and wiry physique. “Do you work out?” giggles a nubile teenager on the sidewalk. “Yeah,” Bomstad drawls, “I fuck and I play guitar.”

“Bomstad, do you have any hobbies, any side projects?” “Cockblocking; I’m a great cockblocker. I love fucking up some guy’s game. Most of the time I don’t even bang the bitch; the whole point is to make the other guy eat shit.” “I mean something creative, productive.” “Well… I beat off a lot. I take at least eight shits a day. Then there’s the enzymes, and my nostrils. And I fall crazy in love with impossible women—all the time!”

[ Continued in I. Bomstad. (Part Two) ]