"Eat Shirt & Tie" now on iTunes!

My debut album "Eat Shirt & Tie" is now available on iTunes for only 5.99! Have at it, folks. And if you like what you hear, I ask that you do one of two things:

1. Write an iTunes review.
2. Tell your friend that his/her neon pink iPod just isn't that adorable unless "Eat Shirt & Tie" is on it.

If you're like the majority of the world, you'll settle for the digital copy, but if you'd still like to purchase the hard copy of the album you can purchase this over at CD Baby.

www.cdbaby.com/kevinandrewprchal

Thank you all so much for your continued support. Where I need you most now is just to spread the word. So much can be accomplished by simply telling a friend or family member about my music. Let them know first off that I exist, secondly where they can hear my music (www.myspace.com/kevinandrewprchal) and lastly, if they enjoy it, that my music is available to them online for only 5.99.

This is the start of exciting times for me and I can't do it without you! Thanks again for everything, guys.

X's and O's,
Kevin Andrew Prchal

Italy.

Florence is like walking through a never-ending alley of restaurants and souvenirs. Sweaty salesman sell leather as thick as their cigarette skin and I make a point to roll my eyes. During the day, the streets flutter with shoulder-to-shoulder Americans all looking for a bowl of pasta, or a proud, bulky statue they know nothing about. Yes, I'm one of those Americans. At night however, the streets clear as if politely accepting my demands, humbly giving me a new perspective. One that I'll dare never let go of.

The city undressed is intoxicating. So calm, I can hear the sound of my own footsteps, fumbling on rocks and pushing up dust. Moonlit dining at every corner as if mocking my empty little pockets. They reel me in regardless, and I hobble away in both guilt and bliss as though I'd just made love to a thief. Wine like a velvety fire, allows no filter between mouth and mind and I smile with purple teeth for no reason at all. I just laugh in a slobbery misfortune and mutter, "Dude, we're in ITALY right now!". Then comes the Mother of all seduction. The devil in high heels. Two (maybe three) scoops of pure gelatinous joy, weighing me even further into the ground. I can refuse an orphaned dollar bill or a kiss from a stranger but never an opportunity for Chocolate Chip Gelato, man. You can forget about it. All these things amount to what should have been the perfect Italian experience, but we both had an itch to see a different side of the city. The road less traveled, if you will.

We met our group at a bridge, slapped on a couple helmets and took off on a picture-perfect bike tour through the Tuscany countryside. On this dirt road adventure we toured a local Winery where we helplessly floated alongside the charm of a beautiful Italian tour guide, ate lunch at a dusty little pasta house, and most importantly, took in the endless sights of vineyard isolation. Pictures below to prove it.
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Fire in Rio Maggiore.
Cinque Terre, Italy.

At first we didn't think much of it. Summer smoke is a familiar smell where we come from. Could have been a beer bottle bonfire or a tank top barbeque for all us red, white and blue's knew. Could have been a faulty firework or a getaway chimney, I don't know. Could have been just about anything pocket-sized until the black poured over our heads like something straight out of Hogwarts. So black that distant patches of sea and sky turned gray. In a half-assed panic, we leaped from rock to rock and up the stairs into the salt water village of Riomaggiore.

Ashes to Ashes, we all stood still and watched the fiery blaze dance wildly atop our little hillside paradise. I can't remember the last time I saw something on fire that wasn't supposed to be. This was not TBS and I was no Pierce Brosnan, and Pete was certainly no Linda Hamilton. This was an honest-to-goodness fire, set free with no conclusion. Bug-eyed and alarmed, we did what every other out-of-towner did. We ran to our rooms to collect our things (more like our lives in a backpack) and gathered in a distance to watch the outcome of this mini-Armageddon.

The fire eventually surrendered, taking a long stretch of vineyards and olive plants with it. It was later determined that this was not the work of natural cause, but that of a devil-headed arsonist. The battle continued into the following day as a variety of Airplanes and Helicopters heroically spit gallons upon gallons of seawater into the face of the slow-roasting remains. On screen, this would have been far from a nail-biter, but man what a fidgety sight to have seen.
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Romeward Bound.
Rome, Italy

Either Rome is exhausting or I'm exhausted. "It's really just a more epic version of Wrigley Field" confessed Pete on the Colosseum. No money left to feed a proper grand tour of the bloodbath amphitheatre, we settle to feed ourselves.

Fanny pack tourists take notes and pictures while Pete and I share a can of Sour Cream 'n Onion Pringles in front of one of Roman History's most impressive architectural displays. We treat the goddamn Colosseum as if it's some sort of convenient mart. I think we're both a little puzzled with Rome. It's got a lot of history, and the city has a right to preserve it, but you'd think after two thousand years they would at least sharpen up the edges. Build a glass wall, or a museum around the ruins, don't just let them sit there as if a bomb went off yesterday.

Again, maybe I'm just tired and uneducated, but I would have rather spent my last day in Europe in a fine print city with a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. God knows where my two little feet will take me next in life, but I leave this continent with a simple reminder: When in Rome; don't be.

Switzerland.

Having only one full day to spend in Switzerland, I'd say we made the best of it. We arrived at night like puzzle pieces of our own flesh and blood, entirely clueless to where we were and what the hell we were doing there. Thankfully, through the almighty powers of Facebook, I was able to connect with an old friend, Bryn Martin who just so happened to be living in Lausanne with his wife Rachel. Bryn met us at the train station on a downhill slalom not ten minutes from his apartment and we wormed our way back up the hill.

We were welcomed with a plate of homemade Ravioli and a buffet of the three Swiss necessities: Chocolate, Cheese and Wine. It's as if we were homeless, taken in by Royalty and offered three sticks of gold a piece. That's how smelly and head-pounding I felt. The "gold" gave us enough energy to take a quick stroll through the town and briefly experience the literal ups and downs of the city and the offset architecture it had to offer. For example; A glass-walled bathroom placed conveniently in the middle of a busy walkway. In this bathroom is a little red button, that when you push it, a thin, glossy layer clouds over the walls giving you all the privacy in the world to get down to business. I must have hit that button four or five times in complete disbelief.

Bryn and Rachel not only offered us a roof, a place to rest our heads and two back-to-back home cooked meals, but they also graciously entrusted us with their bikes for the day. This allowed us to blindly navigate our way through the city and down to the silhouette mountains stretched endlessly along the lake. We took a few wrong turns and paid the uphill price for it, but we eventually pedaled our way to a sparkly sight I won't soon forget. Boats scatter like toys in a bath and the Alps stand merely a shade apart from the crystal water at its feet. We rode our bikes as if chasing it. Like if we ride fast enough we can catch it and bring it home and share it with our friends and family. We eventually hit the end of our path and slumped over a concrete wall; gazing as if we'd both just fallen in love with the same woman.

At this point in the trip, I have managed to somehow tip-toe my way across the boundaries of language and communicate in a variety of hat-trick expressions. You'd be surprised how far the "thumbs up" will get you. Anyhow, among all the fluster of miscommunication, I still managed to collect these subtle understandings with people. Everyday things that we all recognize and experience on an everyday basis without saying a word. It was this idea that brought lyrical attention to a song Bryn had written the music for. So, that night after a hearty bowl of homemade chili, Bryn and I recorded a song together in his living room.
..

Things We Understand
Written by Bryn Martin and Kevin Andrew Prchal

The walk of a bass,
The cut of a drum,
The plea of an empty hand
The shrug of a penny,
The smell of a deli,
There are things that we understand

The raise of a thumb, of a hand, of an eye
The head hang of a man,
Daredevil lovers in a runaway summer,
There are things that we understand.

Like two feet in the sand,
There are things we understand.

A wind,
And a hammer of a wave or a wash,
Two wings that will never land
The push of a bully, or a wish in a well,
There are things that we understand.

Child to a bubble,
Or a subway tunnel,
Where the beggars spit to the fan,
The Lord on his feet and the Devil on his knees,
There are things that we understand.

To hear this song go to:
http://pinklemusic.com/mp3/pinkle_prchal_things_we_understand.mp3
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Bryn writes and records music under the name, Pinkle and he deserves your attention. He is truly making some of the most beautiful music you've never heard. So do yourselves a favor and not only listen to the song we recorded together, but take a few minutes to browse his endless library of songs.
www.pinklemusic.com

I'd also like to Congratulate both Bryn and Rachel on the birth of their baby girl, Noemi. Seeing how you cared for us is only a fractured example of how you'll care for her. Thanks again for everything, guys.

France.

Here I am. A cobblestone lush pressed right in the middle of a reoccurring day dream. Sea breeze and carnival lights greet every wish I once hid beneath my breath. I think about how most Americans believe France to be this fold-over, romantic touchdown-land and I'm on a bench in the heart of a beachside resort where even the French go to get away.

I don't belong here. These are not my feet; they are pebbles of a sandstorm whistled about in uncertainty. These are not my eyes; but sea glitter shored and dry. I see hand-held generations. As ancient as a map in an attic; as strong as a will to live. I see lovers of old and new. As certain as a preacher with a bible in hand; a feeling I've held but never hold. I see a lot of things, I suppose.
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Cookie Monster Wishlist.
Train Station in Perpignan, France.

Things I Would Do For A Glass Of Milk To Pair My Cookie:

- Pinch my nose, close my mouth and blow until my ears pop.
- Say "Aloha" instead of "Hola" to every Spaniard I encounter for the remainder of the trip.
- Read my book out loud on the train.
- Pluck a dozen beard hairs.
- Hug a complete stranger without letting go until a dozen of his/her concerned friends can pry me away.

Things I would Not Do For A Glass Of Milk To Pair My Cookie:

- French kiss Whoopi Goldberg
- Read an entire article on the shortcomings of John and Kate.
- Vote Republican.
- Punch you in the face.
- Knowingly stub my toe.
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Dorothy Don't Kick
A plea to my friend, Dorothy Yang to stay put when she sleeps.
Canet, France.

Dorothy don't kick,
Believe in me this;
The battle is in your head.

Though as long as I lay,
But inches away;
The battle is in the bed.
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Paris.

A soggy whereabout of lampshade eyelids and Halloween breeze; air just thick enough in the morning to where you might see it breathe. If I could I'd catch it and lock it away; in a jar, in a safe, in an old staircase that'd I'd visit from day to day.

Tuxedo language in a ballroom attempt; forever impressing with no applause. My cup to their door, my heart on the floor, a smile and then a wave. Olive on olive! Cheek to cheek! "Hello" never looked so sweet to me.

Bedgrass lovers like a braid of dough; where nowhere is everywhere the same. Though the Mona Lisa marveled and loved by all would do anything to escape. She would melt like wax and cut through glass just to brush another's hand. She would happily set fire to be young again.

I drink water in a wine glass and count the steps between one baguette and the next. Cross-legged critics in a sidewalk office appear like ghosts in their Marlboro wonderland and I balance the weight of envy and disgust.

The tower stands like furniture to its land; a dust mop treasure without a price tag. Visitors gather and pose as if they were the first to find it. Demanding a price among all the everyday faces that have loved it madly for years.

What I'm really trying to say is that, Paris - I love you (too).
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Dinner with Jim Haynes.
Paris, France.

"I don't do handshakes, I do elbows", slurred the vertical remains of artistic entrepreneur, Jim Haynes, 77. So we did just that. We bumped elbows and his cheeks lifted implying that of a smile tucked somewhere beneath his ever-impressing moustache. He patted my back as if sending me off to do exactly what he intended for me to do; Meet people. A vision he's seen through for nearly forty years now, welcoming complete strangers into his home every Sunday for dinner and a mere chance to connect with one another.

Looking out onto the humble collection of guests for the evening was like throwing darts at a map. Each figure with a subtle shift in accent and a round-a-bout story of how they ended up in Paris. I shook hands with a couple of top-hat Cajun's, spoke briefly on love and architecture with a curious German journalist, accepted handpicked apples from a motherly Columbian woman and toasted to the night with a charming Canadian duo. Dinner, in all of its tortilla glory, was prepared by a stunning literature professor from Seattle who later broke my heart entirely after serving ice cream and fresh berries. Conversation cluttered and filled the room like water in a sinking car and the hours tick-tocked their way to the evening's end. The night simmered in a campfire fashion and we all gathered around Jim for an enchanting story on the life and love of his first and only wife of three years and the birth of their son, Jesper. All we needed were pajamas and glass of milk. I suppose I don't remember the last time my life felt this simple. Each and every one of us have troubles to show and tell, but tonight those troubles watched us walk away like a child to its mother on the first day of school. We left them at the gate and waved goodbye in a fair-weather retreat.

By now, you've more than likely assumed Jim to be a very wealthy man. You've already pictured his house to be as big as your imagination can reach and I don't blame you. I'm not one to assume he doesn't bathe in Fiji water either, but the narrow garden walkway leading up to his doorstep offered no proof of such riches. He is a simple man, in a simple home, with book shelves for walls and a dozen stories to tell. Infact, they have been told. Several books have been written by or about Jim Haynes and his radical life pursuit. Books about his years in the army, the success of his paperback book shop in Edinburgh, his endless support in artistic and sexual expression, and of course, his moonlit dinner parties. His autobiography, "Thanks For Coming!", has published letters written back and forth between Jim and John Lennon. He is a man who has seen the world and understands that life is built not on the power or money we seek, but on the relationships we keep. We may never know what could have come from a single handshake or an 'elbow'.

To learn more about Jim or to reserve a knife 'n fork for yourself, go to: www.jim-haynes.com

Spain.

Madrid, Spain.

Madrid is majestic. Just outside our window a man plays his Violin no different than a wind plays a willow. I listen with the same attention I give to a steady, fall breeze and pretend to fall asleep. Truth is, though my body as weak as a match, I couldn't fall asleep if I wanted to. Not now. I wouldn't dare miss the sounds of laughter in another language or the silverware echo of a dozen dinner parties . I couldn't possibly neglect the brick-to-brick tantrum of youth on wheels; a sound so familiar I can almost feel the rumble on my feet. It's a Monday night in Saturday night's clothes and I couldn't feel less alone. O Mr. Violin man; May your song meet the galloping air and float like a feather 'til it wraps me in a deep, heavy sleep. Awesome, thanks.
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Sidenote Sillyness.
Pete: You better check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Lauren: Okay, thank you for the advice.
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Mediterranean.
Valencia, Spain.
Today I swam the Mediterranean. From a circle of shade I ran away, like a child escapes the rain.
Big toe to big toe, Hot sand to wet.
Heart somersaults and breasts bare of all shape; I try but I can't look away.
It swallowed me whole and I let it. No use in pretending it can't.
I heavy my eyes and thank the sky for all of the color's it dare never hides.
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La Tomatina 2009.
Bunol, Spain.
A celebration of the worlds! Dim lights led both our feet and curiosity to a spiral stairway of sing-along uncertainty among every stretch of the globe. A colorful collection of war paint Australians, shy Americans, masked Japanese and fearless Spaniards (among many more) brought here to experience something bigger than themselves. Something only those who attend can fully understand and whisper among friends and future grandchildren.

It was still dark when the train left Valencia and we made friends with a sleepy bundle of Americans who later let us cut in line with them for the train ride back. A whirl of "Au Lait's" and a cup full of beer welcomed us into the beautiful, tarp covered town of Bunol. We followed the crowd and the music down a long stretched road where the locals waved politely and smiled. Not necessarily a genuine wave, but more like the way you wave to a teacher in the hallway. The kind of wave you give a group of people who plan on painting your town with tomatoes. The deeper we got the more we realized what we wandered into. We couldn't go left, we couldn't go right. We could only stand as still as a grave and accept the inevitable tomato missiles like we accept our everyday flaws. Joyous or not, it was fair to be uneasy.

Not far from our sight, a lard-smothered pole is erected with a ham dangling from the top of it. Strange sentence, I know, but tradition being the only way for the festivities to begin is when that eager-somebody can climb the pole and collect the ham. Easier read than done. One by one, likes apples from a tree, they fell to their defeat. This went on for nearly two hours before the crowd grew anxious and yawny with the acrobatic attempts to ham-held glory, and their attention was quickly directed elsewhere. When I say "elsewhere" I mean to the simple fact that they were out of beer and had yet to see a single tomato. Then it happened. Among all the sweaty sing-a-long's and airborne t-shirts, a siren sang loud and clear, sending an uproar of animalistic cheer into the afternoon.

I could go into detail, but details would never justify the rubbery sting of a ripe tomato hitting you in the eyeball at full speed. They would never amount to the green light of juicing a fresh tomato over the head of a complete stranger. Details would never stretch the length of your smile to its absolute limit, watching as your spaghetti-head friends holler with every clobber to the face. They would never tear the shirt right off your back and they would never force you to put on a second shirt that you found in the middle of the street in order to get back on the train (That shirt was hot pink might I add). Details would never defeat the truck load soldiers, armed and ready to make salsa out of you. They would never leave you begging. Begging under the hose of a kind neighborly woman to wash your skin and free the slime from your heavy hair. Details would never put you to sleep as easy as it put me and they would never, ever let you forget the stink. Details, no. Details would never make sense of something like this.
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Valencia, Spain.
Tonight we're on a beach in Valencia, Spain.
Tonight we ate salami sandwiches.
Tonight we drank two bottles of cheap wine.
Tonight we leaped into the Mediterranean in our underpants.
Tonight we wrote a poem and stuffed it into one of two empty wine bottles.
Tonight we watched as Dorothy tossed it to sea.
Tonight I walked home in my underpants.
Today you read our poem.
..
"Large Bosom"
A man with a large bosom,
emerges from the sea.

A man with a large bosom,
unites you and me.

A man with a large bosom,
clings to a tree.

A man with a large bosom,
years to be free.'

A woman with a medium-sized bosom,
let's it be.

Words of undeniable wisdom by:
Peter Hoffman, Dorothy Yang, Lauren Siwicki and Kevin Prchal.

Airplane to Madrid.

I'm thinking about the birds and who dare approach the clouds. Do birds runaway? I can't imagine why they wouldn't. Perhaps clouds are nothing but a birdland orphanage. A place to rest.

I'm thinking about the two Italian girls sitting next to me and how they couldn't be ugly if they tried. "Milano" she said and I melted like a popsicle. I'd like to tell them both how wonderful they are. I'd like to leap the barriers of language and exaggerate myself entirely. Make them believe that I'm brave or well accomplished. I'd like to kiss them both goodbye.

I wish I was able to communicate with the Spanish man to my left in a language other than head nods. He wears a Hawaiian shirt with Corona bottles all over it and he is, in my opinion, a champion air guitar player. With each arena-rock outburst, his son giggles in disbelief across the aisle. His wife smiles in her pretty pink dress, more impressed, however, with the foamy chocolate cake that was served with dinner.

Current Thoughts:
- I'm better at speaking OF God than I am at speaking TO God.
- I'm terribly insensitive to people with nut allergies.
- I'd like to listen to more R.E.M.