Archive for the 'Dead Tour' Category

Welcome To The Monkey On My Back.

For speedWay readers who wonder how they can bet on the next Spun Cookie Race; or for that matter aren’t yet clear on what a Spun Cookie is…Here’s a good rule of thumb: the cookie has nothing to do with it. In fact I think that cookie has out-lived its’ usefulness.

Fuck cookies.

From now on: It’s 24/7 Spun Kookie races on the world famous open container speedWay!

Spread the word.

The question then is what is Spun?

Spun is like a perma-tilted pinball machine. Though the Game Over light keeps flashing the Credit counter, clearly malfunctioned, registers enough credits to provide free pinball until the 2010 mid-term elections. After that it plans to run for President.

Ever hear of a pinball game called Strange Torpedo? Me neither. I called the manufacturer to inquire about the machine’s origins. They told me that it was the only one of its kind.

Weird thing is even when the machine is unplugged the lights keep on a-flashing. It claims to pick up the extra credits in dimensions parallel to and equally as ‘real’ as our own. Quantum physisits insist these mathematical necessities — called Elsewheres — exist in realms flung so far through time & space we will never encounter them.

Strange Torpedo disagrees. Says those Elsewheres — far from flung — are really so close to our own Reality Assumption that without the right kind of eyes we don’t see them.

Strange Torpedo never shuts off for a more obvious reason — the pinball machine somehow convinced some psychiatrist to prescribe him mix-salt amphetamines for a bogus case of A.D.D.

Strange Torpedo — the sleepless extraterrestrial multi-dimension leaning orphan pinball machine — is one good example of Spun.

“Yo those Spun Cookies on your blog are pretty stale.” A friend pointed out recently. “Can we smoke ’em?”

Pippi: can you smoke a Spun Cookie?

Heads Up: To The Youth! You can take Pippi at her word. She is not just an expert. Pippi is long gone Pro.

She writes a weekly column for the successful fiber-craft web rag Knitty; a column Pippi sneakily & bravely named Get Spun.

Wicked frikkin funny. No shit.

Not the column itself — though it’s no doubt speckled liberally with cult knitter inside jokes. The title though is all-time classic art by itself; it will live brilliantly on. The joke not only identifies Pippi’s allegiance — on our side — it also spews chuckles aplenty out of every old-time drug user I tell.

“Hey my friend Pippi calls her column in a knitting magazine Get Spun!”

“Do the knitters know?” One friend asked.

Only the knitters who know shit about anything.

“Man I am Spun.” A friend once proclaimed.

“Hard Spun.” I assured him.

And that is all ye need to know.

Unless you still can’t figure out what Spun means.

One time in the passenger seat of a parked car I got so wasted on drugs — quality psychedelics — that I actually thought I was flying a spaceship.

It is the uncontested pinnacle of my personal far&wide drug experience. To this day I still swell some with pride at the accomplishment. Just you go an imagine the amount of drugs required. Plenty of people have taken enough drugs to forget momentarily which exact planet they are on.

But who here has borrowed & taken the actual spaceship out for a joy spin?

Truth told: The spaceship was not lent so much as conjured from brain resin — strange hypothalamic crystalline wash-off (reputedly the most potent drug concoction in the cosmos) — which lay sludge-puddled & stuck in the bottom of my skull. This residue of a 10-year plus drug binge is the leftover drugs that, for various unavoidable reasons, never made it to the hypothalamus; the part of the brain responsible for converting drugs into the neurotransmitter proteins — ie dopamine & seretonin –which rule so total-way awesomely.

Normally these sludge pools lie dormant but under special conditions — when the bottom-skull reservoirs are full, a feat accomplished at maximum on 2 or 3 occasions per lifetime — erupt. Back into the brain. And settle. Thinly & invisibly blanket the hypothalamus. Then seep slowly if with pronounced efficacy over the course of the ensuing decade into the various synapses.

WAY! Free drugs dudez!

That’s the real reason I seemed to handle a strange and blistering fast spacecraft — my first solo flight — with the greatest of ease. Because my reservoirs erupted. YEAH!! So I wasn’t just high on the drugs I took that night but on a semblance of all the drugs I — or anyone else — had barreled into my brain ever in my life.

Expensive little spaceship ride! I tell you.

But it was awesome.

That’s why Pippi says Get Spun.

Hard Spun.

Off to the Monkey House — gone. Gone far & hard enough to never come back.


Spun Kookie.

Round & round & round & round
Round & round & round
& Round.

And Round!

Singing Thank You!!
For a real good time.
>>Grateful Dead

Any questions?

Yeah! Got one:

Who is going to win the 2007 Kentucky Derby (hint: my new favorite racehorse)?

I will place a complimentary $5 Kentucky Derby bet on behalf of the first reader to email me the correct answer. Get Spun. Spin It Like You Stole It. Good Luck.

Dear Drugs: THANK YOU!! for a real good time..


Without illegal drugs, my life, up till & including tonight, would have sucked toast. Way bogus. I mean bad; a total waste of time.

It would have all been so stupid!!

Shit yes. I have problems. My life has been hard. But when I’ve needed them drugs have been there for me. When I had nowhere else to turn it was drugs that saved the day.

Even when my life sucks directly because of drugs it still beats the sad crap out of how bad life would suck with no drugs at all. I will go so far as to say I feel certain I would’ve killed myself long ago if the drugs weren’t on my side.

Why? Because drugs gave me something to live for. A reason to stay awake for another day & night when the sun comes up each morning. Yeah & you know what?

Drugs give me Hope!

Mostly they’ve helped me celebrate life with people I love. I am going to die one day. When I do I’ll look back over this 1 & 3/4 decades-long drug binge and congratulate myself for a job smashingly well done. Yeppers kiddoz! My first hit of weed was the smartest choice I ever made. Until I finally got to check out some of that L$D!!

And when you go without food — due to smoldering abject poverty — for a day or few you will thank Adolph Hitler, Sweet Mother Earth and maybe even Jesus — that evil cocksucker — for all the amphetamines.

So thanks again drugs. Just sorry you had to wear off so soon. Ya’ll come back now y’hear!

Ok. Off to sleep.


Ludicrous Saints


By Drug People. For Drug People.

This is awesome dudes.

the Most Roman

“Holy Shit,” I exclaimed. Shook my head & blinked & plumb befuddle stumbled as two armed goons shook me loose from their one on-each-elbow grip.

“It’s daytime!!’

I blinked again.

A freshly disembarked bus-load of Japanese tourists milled excitedly on the sidewalk in front of Circus Circus.

Very drunk. Can’t even blink straight.,.

I glanced sidelong at my two partners in crime. A sunbeam reflected like a jewel-flash from Seacrow’s freshly shaved head. Julius grinned wildly & rolled his tongue from his mouth as if to not just kiss but salaciously make out with the morning sky.

“I fucking LOVE this town!” I howled – which town? I had no clue — as six casino security personnel pressed us roughly from the premises for reasons I temporarily couldn’t recall.

That’s when it’s awesome.

It was awesome & splendidly then some; quite literally The Time of our young lives. I wanted badly to celebrate it and, in retrospect, my want was perfectly right.

“We’ll have three Wild Turkeys in to-go glasses.” I informed the closest goon, “With ice & Pronto.”

Duh-no we WON’T!!” Seacrow laughed & slurred & shook his finger like one would to correct a child’s silliness. “Turkey flew coop & go by-bye!!

I laughed uncontrollably. By why? I strained to remember… Quarters, dimes & a cool couple $1’s – seven cash dollars total – scraped up, the night before, from our laundry bags & car floor. Right. We cashed these into nickels. Dispatched a cocktail girl for our first round of Wild Turkey on ice & parked at the nickel slots — many, many hours & multiple bottles of liquor ago.

We won & lost some but on balance our luck held amazingly. When the nickels ran low we were ready: we had a Plan. Instead of pumping coins in one after another we fed the machines with the deliberate patience of ‘gamblers’ who won’t be denied their divine Right to complimentary whiskey.

When they ran critically short we scooped our remaining nickels out of the slot-machine loot bins and – with much celebratory high-5 fanfare & exaggerated cling-clang – threw the coins back in by hand.

Like: “Sweet be-jeezus we won AGAIN! Can ya believe it? More whiskey for the Low Rollers W’Hee!!”

And when the Circus Circus ran out of Wild Turkey we just smiled & waved to the ubiquitous security cameras & downgraded to Jim Beam without complaining.

The cameras glared back menacingly. But it was too late. The House was already beat.

“Hey — are you guys actually gambling,” A cocktail girl – our second, on account of the A.M. shift change – asked finally, “Or are you just here to drink free?”

“We’re gambling for free drinks,” Julius winked at her matter-of-factly, “And winning! May we have three more please?”

“Yes! Please!!” Seacrow pleaded politely. “Shit – we’ll tip you our next Jackpot if you bring us 2 drinks apiece!”

She glanced nervously over both shoulders. “They’re not gonna like this…”

Nevertheless the girl was back in a flash. We slurped this round speedily, though, astutely sensing through the booze-fog that Trouble would soon follow.

And in fact it did. There were the six aformentioned security goons.

And their Trouble was Julius.

Grateful Dead bassist Phil Lesh described his band’s seismic early 90’s popularity surge as the ‘Mega Dead Era;’ a time when their once-secret travelling circus was colonized by new fans in thousands-fold droves.

“If you don’t know what to do,” the band famously advised their young legions, “Ask an older DeadHead!”

Julius was the Kid those older DeadHeads warned you about.

He put Mega in the Mega Dead Era; the Life, as it were, of the Biggest Party ever to hit Planet Earth — right when that party went Huge.

Like a Corvette convertible found parked on a country road after midnight, keys in the ignition, Julius begs from his friends the Question: Why buy the Ticket – why bother – when we can takes the Ride For Free?

“Add a six-pack of Reno’s best Hookers to that whiskey order!” Julius chimed, with Hell’s Bells certainty, into the early morning goon-ruckus on the Circus Circus front sidewalk. “Two each for my friends. YES. No. Make it seven – I get 3 cause I’m the Most Roman! Plus a round of low rent blow-jobs for the Goon Squad…my treat!”

Julius turned and tapped a Japanese tourist on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he begged with supreme dignity, ‘Can you spare a thousand dollar?”

Whole thousand dollar?” The tourist asked, stunned but bested by curiosity. ‘Why you need thousand dollar??”

“The ladies the ladies!!”

“Ooh, for whole thousand?” The tourist gulped, “That sound like goood Yankey My Wankey!”