I’ve made my fair share of mistakes over the years and I always cop to them. This one, however, wasn’t on me. Sleepy was the one who insisted we end our 2005 European tour with a drive into the wilds of central Sweden to see the Storsjöodjuret. If anyone owes the world an apology for what happened, it’s her.

 

Legend says the Storsjöodjuret or “Great Lake Monster” has the head of a dog, a serpentine body about 20 feet long, and fins across its back. It lives in the depths of Lake Storsjön, about 350 miles northwest of Stockholm. First mentioned in texts of the early 1600s, it came to popular attention after several failed attempts to capture it in the late 1800s. Since then it’s been seen hundreds of times, but, like the Loch Ness Monster, continues to elude scientists and photographers.

 

Unlike Nessie, however, the Storsjöodjuret had the distinction of being declared an “endangered species” by the local Jämtland county administrative board and granted protected status.

 

That was more than enough for Sleepy. To be fair, she pitched us a whole agenda for a vacation in Sweden, including seeing the Northern Lights, riding on dogsleds, hiking on glaciers, skiing, eating reindeer (that one didn’t go over so well with vegetarian Sneezy), and more. All of which was window-dressing. We all knew the real reason she wanted to head into the snowy north. The Storsjöodjuret.

 

She won, as usual. When Sleepy sets her mind to something, there’s no unsetting it. After the Stockholm gig, the second-to-last of the Euro tour, I, Pinky Tourette, booker nonpareil, scheduled us a week off before the final show in Gothenburg and the flight home. The plan was for us to drive to Kiruna in Lapland, the mecca for watchers of the Northern Lights, stopping along the way at various places of interest. En route we’d enjoy the spectacular Scandinavian countryside and savor the fine local cuisine.

 

The tour was hugely successful, hitting all the major European cities and summer/early fall festivals, playing to hundreds of thousands of fans and spreading Thee Tourettes gospel among who knows how many more. It seemed fitting to end in Sweden, where we’d played once before in ’86 or so and had an amazing time. If there’s one country on the planet that knows how to rock, it’s Sweden, where the kids are apparently weaned from birth on power chords and kickass Detroit ramalama.

 

Back when we first visited, Sweden, or at least the part of it we experienced, was deep in a retro obsession, the fans sporting sharp ‘60s garb while snotty garage bands like The Creeps and The Stomachmouths and Backdoor Men and Crimson Shadows and Wylde Mammoths kicked out the jams in a massive way. We loved the atmosphere, the audience, the music, the energy, the vibe, everydamnthing about the scene, and they loved us back.

 

By 2005 when we returned the garage revival was long gone, with its Brian Jones haircuts, paisley threads, and mod graphics. The music was every bit as tranformative, though. We played with Thåström, a jaw-droppingly brilliant band led by Joakim Thåström, formerly of mediocre punkers Ebba Grön; and Sofia Härdig and the Needles, a driving outfit that came off like Patti Smith fronting the Velvet Underground.

 

Sneezy was ready to bolt out of town immediately after the last gig but Doc, with her history obsession, kept us in Stockholm for another two days, soaking up the architecture and atmosphere, the public squares and statues and cobblestone alleys, taking a river taxi to the Royal Palace and Vasa Museum, visiting City Hall and the site of the hostage crisis that spawned the “Stockholm Syndrome.” As always we were drawn magnetically to music stores, including Pet Sounds and Got to Hurry Records, where Dopey alternately begged, pleaded, bribed, and threatened, all in a vain attempt to score a framed Mecki Mark Men poster from 1969. We ate Swedish meatballs and lingonberries in a stone cellar cafe in Gamla Stan; we shivered while drinking vodka concoctions inside the Icebar, a frozen indoor cave carved out of 40 tons of natural ice from the glacial regions; we stumbled to Södermalm, where Greta Garbo grew up, and got wasted on heated Glogg.

 

Finally, much to Sleepy’s delight, it was time to go. We made sure the rented van had sufficient heat before piling in early in the morning and pointing ourselves north. It was September, and although temperatures were in the 50s in Stockholm, we expected that to change as we approached the Arctic Circle.

 

For the first leg of our journey we stuck to the highways: E18 and E16. Our first stop was Siljan, a massive lake created 365 million years ago when a meteorite slammed into the Earth. We had lunch in the small, traditional locality of Mora alongside the clear blue lake. Seventy-five miles to our west was Norway. In between were ski slopes and resorts that we planned to visit on the return trip.

 

After lunch we set out for Östersund, on the banks of Lake Storsjön, in whose depths dwelt the monster Storsjöodjuret. Sleepy had taken over the wheel, spelling me from the first leg. She was eager to get to the beast. According to the GPS – back then they were standalone units, not casual apps on every portable device – the trip should have taken a little over four hours.

 

Pine forests and snow became the predominant scenery as we cruised through central Sweden. Pristine wilderness and rolling hills surrounded us. Occasional wooden barns and rust-colored cottages dotted the landscape. Our goal was to be in Östersund before the sun set around 7:30. Sleepy kept us on the E45 more or less straight north, paralleling the coastline of the Gulf of Bothnia. The rest of us dozed, chatted, listened to music on our iPods, or poked around on our state-of-the-art Motorola Razr flip-phones.

 

I was among the dozers, eventually awakened by the increasing bumpiness of the ride. Looking out the window I was surprised to see the forest tight on either side and darkness already encroaching. When I stumbled up front, Sleepy said we were almost there. We’d apparently been on local roads for a while. Only recently had they devolved into little more than a dirt path.

 

Minutes later we coasted to a stop in a meager town square. In the center squatted a bronze statue of a young boy riding a duck inside an empty stone pool. Ahead of us stood a red wooden church with a peaked roof and stubby steeple, flanked by half a dozen other low wooden buildings. Behind them and all around us a thick wall of tall pines seemed to lean inward over the square. They reminded me for some reason of the wall that separated the natives from King Kong.

 

According to the GPS, we were there. Sleepy didn’t seem convinced, saying Östersund was supposed to be a city, complete with a university, airport, shopping district, a zoo. This wasn’t even a village. And where was the lake?

 

At the same time Happy noticed she was no longer getting a signal on her phone. None of us were, it turned out. Coverage was much spottier back then, and we were smack dab in the center of who knows where, so it didn’t entirely surprise us, although it was a bit discomforting.

 

Little did we know.

 

Doc suggested we find someone to talk to. English speakers had been common in Stockholm; hopefully we’d have the same luck here. Doc, Sleepy, and I got out and headed for the church, the focal point of the square, as the last rays of sunlight faded overhead.

 

The inside of the church was dim and spare: wooden walls, a bare-bones altar, bench pews. Sleepy called out a greeting. Her voice echoed in the empty room. Moments later someone appeared from a side alcove and responded in Swedish. Sleepy asked if he spoke English. The stranger’s face lit up and he said hello in perfect, unaccented English. He looked vaguely familiar to me. I figured maybe all middle-aged Swedes looked alike.

 

Sleepy minced no words, asking if this was Östersund. Her face fell when he told us no, this was Ingenstans. Östersund was a good 100 kilometers as the crow flies – and no crow could fly through this dense forest. We’d have to drive about an hour on local roads and reconnect to E45.

 

As the stranger walked us back to the van he introduced himself as Father Flanagan. Doc commented that Flanagan didn’t sound like a Swedish name and he laughed, saying we wouldn’t be able to pronounce his real name. Then he asked where we were from and what we were doing here. Doc gave him a quick rundown.

 

The girls were milling about the vehicle, stretching their legs. Father Flanagan greeted them all and repeated the directions to Östersund as we climbed into our respective seats. Wide awake now, I slid behind the wheel for the next leg and turned the key as he waved goodbye.

 

Nothing happened. Not a sputter. Just a hollow metal click, and dead silence from the engine. It wasn’t the gas. We’d filled up in Mora. Father Flanagan watched silently as I pumped the pedal, tried again, shut off the heater, tried again, cursed, tried again. Same results.

 

Naturally I did what everyone does in that situation. I popped open the hood, despite knowing zero about engines. If I found a gremlin crouched in there, I’d figure to shoo him away. Otherwise, not a clue.

 

After watching me stare futilely at the dead engine trying to will it to life, Father Flanagan said he knew somebody who could fix just about anything and offered to call him for us. Sleepy jumped in immediately, asking if he could fix it tonight. One track mind. She really wanted to get to that damn monster.

 

Our host said he’d find out and headed into the church. A few minutes later he came out and said unfortunately his guy was away for the night and would be back in the morning. Could he offer us a place to stay meanwhile and a bite to eat?

 

The food offer hooked us. We’d stocked the van with snacks but if I knew Happy, they’d be half gone by now, and there was no way a handful of Milka chocolates and some Fruksoda were going to tide her over for long.

 

Locking the van – even in the heart of the forest, who knows what thieves or brigands lay in wait? – we headed into the church with Father Flanagan. He disappeared into the alcove again and when he came back it was with a big smile on his face. Everything was arranged.

 

First to arrive was a friendly guy who introduced himself as Atticus, carrying a cooler of drinks. He too looked strangely familiar. I was mulling that over in my mind when Dopey sidled over with a peculiar smile on her face.

 

Spencer Tracy, she said. Gregory Peck.

 

Of course. That’s why they looked familiar. Father Flanagan was a dead ringer for Tracy, and Atticus looked like a young Peck. Dopey, the movie freak, pegged it immediately. I didn’t need her to point it out when the next couple, Stanley and Lorelei, showed up together carting a large basket of food. Marlon Brando and Marilyn Monroe.

 

While our hosts rearranged the pews inside the church and set up folding tables with help from the girls, Doc joined Dopey and I in the corner and together we played a whispered game of What-the-Fuck? Doc suggested that maybe the actors never died and retired here to live out their retiring years in secret. Elvis was bound to show up next. That didn’t make sense, though. They’d have been much older by now. Dopey’s suggestion: plastic surgery. We’d stumbled into a cult of hardcore American movie fanatics. That at least had possibilities.

 

More villagers showed up with additional food and tableware. James Stewart came bearing plates and utensils. Barbara Stanwyck brought an armload of bread. Jimmy Cagney arrived with a tray of mugs and glasses. Ingrid Bergman carried desserts. Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Edward G. Robinson, Joan Crawford, Orson Welles, everybody brought something. Dopey had to identify some of the lesser luminaries for me. She was literally quivering with a mixture of disbelief, trepidation, and fangirl excitement as the luminaries strode one by one into the church to join us. I was ready to run screaming back to Stockholm.

 

The meal was tasty, what little I ate of it. Part of my brain was furiously calculating whether they were planning to drug and sacrifice us to the infernal demigods of Hollywood. Doc seemed to have the same concerns and abstained completely while the others gorged themselves and washed it down with fermented cider and starköl. Dopey was too overwhelmed by the company to say no when Audrey Hepburn and Robert Mitchum passed her platters of food, and she wound up eating everything offered. Our hosts toasted liberally with akvavit throughout the feast. I managed to keep the girls from joining in the shots, except for Sleepy, who matched our hosts shooter for shooter. Keeping Sleepy from embracing a new taste, a new experience, is a loser’s game.

 

As the meal wore down the townsfolk offered to put us up in their homes. I thanked them and said no, we’d sleep in the van. Again, all except Sleepy, who eagerly accepted the offer. The lake monster had been superseded for now. I managed to pull her aside and ask if she’d noticed anything unusual about our hosts. Yep, she said, they’re cool as shit. And off she went with a woman named Dorothy who could have been Judy Garland’s twin.

 

Back in the van we checked the phones. No signal. The GPS was stone dead. Not that the damn thing was any use anyway. Why had the piece of junk directed us here to begin with, rather than Östersund?

 

The younger girls quickly dropped off to sleep. Doc and Dopey and I tossed around empty ideas before opting to nap in shifts, one of us staying awake as guard. Whatever good that would do.

 

Soon after dawn the fix-it guy appeared. His name was Buzz. (William Bendix, Dopey whispered in my ear.) Father Flanagan showed up a short while later to invite us to breakfast. This time tables were set up outside on the main square and the townspeople arrived bearing containers of boiled eggs with caviar, open faced sandwiches on knäckebröd bread, and muesli with filmjölk, fruits, and berries. I was either a little less concerned after surviving dinner the night before or just too damned starved to resist. Everything was delicious. I ate like a castaway and guzzled the strong coffee and juice.

 

Sleepy showed up surprisingly unhungover and enthusiastic with Dorothy and her new friend Lola, who looked like Marlene Dietrich’s reflection, and announced that we were going to put on a free concert for the locals tonight.

 

No no no, we said. We’re outta here the moment Buzz fixes the van. Yes yes yes, Sleepy insisted. It’ll be amazing. A one-of-a-kind experience, a command performance here in the hidden heart of Sweden’s midnight forest. The Storsjöodjuret monster had taken a back seat to her newest venture. Her newest passion. Her newest obsession.

 

The thing you need to understand about Sleepy is that she’s all about the new, the unusual, the unique, the unfamiliar. I challenge anyone to find pictures of her from two Tourettes gigs where she looks the same. She’s been through every color, length, and style of hair from bald to mohawk to dreads. Even on tour with a limited wardrobe she manages to mix it up for every show. Life to her is evolution, a constant quest for novel experiences, an all-consuming drive to discover whatever’s over the next hill.

 

One small example: she and I have a running feud about eating habits. Me, I eat logically. If I find something I like, I order it. Repeatedly. Not Sleepy. If she enjoys a meal, no matter how exceptional it is, she’s done with it. On to the next one. Her argument is that there’s always something different, something worth trying, something that might be even better.

 

Sleepy is the one who pushes the band to constantly try new things. At the first hint of repetition, she shuts it down and insists we either take it in a new direction or toss it on the dung heap. It’s a bitch, and it’s a godsend. Her drive for newness keeps us on our toes.

 

And it makes my life hell. My credo is if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Her is if it ain’t broke, break it.

 

By mid-afternoon our equipment was set up in the town square, with a patchwork of extension cords leading from the church. As the band ran through a quick sound check I headed over to see how Buzz was doing. He told me he’d had to order a part for the engine. It should be available tomorrow. What part, I asked. He didn’t know the English name. This despite speaking impeccable English without a trace of accent, like everyone else in this skewed town.

 

When the sound check ended a handful of local spectators applauded heartily in the square. Afterward Sleepy wandered off with Dorothy and Lola and their pal Joan Crawford.

 

Dinner was a lavish spread that put the previous night to shame. Meatballs, of course, and potato pancakes and breaded ground veal Wallenbergare and Kalops meat stew and soup and sausage and beans and bacon and fresh salmon that came from I know not where, followed by an array of marvelous pastries. I did not hold back on stuffing myself this time, or drinking for that matter. All the locals were there, including some I hadn’t spotted earlier: Clark Gable, Liz Taylor, Charlie Chaplin, Bette Davis. All of them delighted to spend time with us. I have to admit it was flattering to be greeted like royalty here in this tiny tinseltown. For the first time I relaxed enough to let down my guard, enjoying the unique and absurd thrill of sharing toasts with the greatest icons of the silver screen.

 

Sleepy showed up late with her friends Lola and Dorothy. She had done some work on them, styling them up and dressing them sideways. Their hair, their makeup, their clothing, even their attitude – they no longer looked like old movie stills. They looked oddly… contemporary.

 

When time came for the concert, I was completely blotto. It seemed the only reasonable response to the circumstances. Night had fallen and there were more stars in the circle of sky visible overhead than I’d ever seen before. Likewise in the audience. The girls played their hearts out, as they always do, and the Hollywood elite ate it up. In retrospect I wish I’d been a little less loaded and had thought to take pictures. Would have made for quite the scrapbook montage.

 

The next morning I slept late and woke up ornery, my head reverberating with last night’s brännvin – literally “burn wine.” The girls carried me to breakfast and forced me to ingest coffee, eggs, and crackers with honey. Sleepy didn’t join us. She had split early to hang with her homegirls.

 

After eating I felt like shit – meaning infinitely better than when I awoke. Buzz was nowhere to be found. I took a nap in the van and got up in the late afternoon feeling almost human. Doc and Dopey were sitting on the rim of the empty stone pool, working on a new song. Dopey seemed excited, inspired by the whole experience. Some of the girls were hanging with the locals. Happy was alone at the table by the church, wolfing down leftovers.

 

I joined her and nibbled on a cold pancake. After a few minutes Father Flanagan came over with a pot of coffee, saying he thought I could use a pick-me-up. I thanked him and forced some inside me. He thanked me in return for the amazing show last night, and for bringing the outside world to Ingenstans. They were too cloistered here, he said, too isolated, too sheltered. We had done them a great service.

 

Glad to help, I said. It was meant sarcastically. I don’t think it registered. Instead he told me the people of Ingenstans were great fans of American culture. Yeah, I picked up on that, I said.

 

It was different, though, observing from afar – that’s how he put it – observing from afar, as opposed to experiencing it firsthand. They had been watching us, imitating us, envying us, wanting to be like us, and it was only now that they understood the only way to be like us was to be different from us. We were all different. That’s what made us us. Thee Tourettes had taught them that, and now that they understood it, they could venture comfortably out into the world.

 

Sure, I said, makes sense to me. It made no sense to me. I excused myself and intercepted Buzz, crossing the square toward the van with a small toolbox in his hand.

 

Yes, he told me, he had gotten the engine part. Hallelujah! How long till he could have us up and running? An hour at most.

 

I hurried over to let Doc and Dopey know. It was hard to tell if Dopey was pleased or disappointed. Doc, on the other hand, was 100% ready to go. Together we herded the rest of the girls and told them we’d be hitting the road shortly.

 

Except Sleepy was still missing. Inside the church I found Father Flanagan and asked him if he knew where she was. Sure, he said, and went to make a phone call.

 

Perhaps 20 minutes later, Sleepy strode cheerfully into the town square. Behind her trailed a crowd of locals, of Hollywood legends. Only not. They had all been altered, modified, revised, updated. New styles, new colors, new… auras. Sleepy was beaming with pride.

 

She had stirred the pot, changed the recipe. Hollywood stars are forever fixed in our memories, captured in celluloid, styled and lit and framed by master craftsmen to convey a certain very specific image. But beneath all that they had countless different facets, like everyone else. Sleepy had dug deep to find alternate facets, alternate looks, alternate shading and color and emphasis, alternate faces, and she had transformed them. No longer did they look like black and white publicity photos. They looked like real people, like friends, like neighbors, in genuine living color complete with flaws and quirks and eccentricities. I don’t know how to say it other than she humanized them. Passing one of them on the street now you might do a quick double-take: Was that so-and-so? And then you’d say Nah, and keep on walking.

 

At the van Sleepy rummaged through her wardrobe and handed out bits of clothing to the locals. We had only one gig left this tour; no need to hang on to these. Myrna Loy wrapped a paisley scarf around her neck. Kirk Douglas donned a pair of punk shades. Elsa Lanchester perched a Hello Kitty beanie atop her head.

 

You’re good to go, said Buzz, slamming shut the hood. And after a lengthy and fervent series of farewells between Sleepy and the locals (I was inevitably reminded of Dorothy leaving Oz), go we did. I took it easy at first, winding through the forest down the dirt road, swerving to avoid potholes, picking up speed as the road improved and flooring it once we hit the highway.

 

The GPS was working again and had corrected itself, showing a direct path to Östersund. Our phones were back in operation. And Sleepy was in prime form, talking about how we’d get up early to stalk the Storsjöodjuret monster. Already Ingenstans was behind her.

 

Not me. I kept thinking about Siljan, the lake created when an object from space crashed to Earth. If it happened once, it could happen again. I thought about Hollywood, crafting its polished, perfect, iconic images, and I thought of television broadcasting those images nonstop into the ether for decades, a running commentary on how these peculiar human creatures look, how they act, who they are.

 

I thought about what Father Flanagan had said, about how they could now venture comfortably out into the world. At the time it sounded like so much nonsense. Now I wasn’t so sure.

 

What I was sure was that they had lured us there intentionally, hijacking the GPS. Why us? Well… why not? They wanted something. We had it. We gave it to them. Sleepy gave it to them. And now they walk among us, for reasons I can’t begin to fathom.

 

Since then my pulse beats a little faster every time I spot someone with even a vague resemblance to a celebrity. That guy there, he looks sorta like Paul Newman, but no, must be a coincidence, right? Sure, that’s all. A coincidence.

 

For what it’s worth, we never did see the Storsjöodjuret monster. Or the Northern Lights, for that matter. As far as we know, neither one exists.