Archive for the 'grateful dead' 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.

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.

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Ice 9

A mid April blizzard-load of snow flew in the face of Global Warming here in southern Vermont today. Kurt Vonnegut died. At times like these we can’t help but fret somewhat about the Ice 9. Is that why there’s no spring this year in America? Perhaps. It seems likely that by now human self-extermination, by one method or another, is intractably a foregone conclusion.

How embarrassing.

But there may be hope yet — thanks in no small part to weirdos like Kurt Vonnegut.

I particularly admire what this guy does with make believe & science & doom.

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

Fact:

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.

NOT!!

Ludicrous Saints

Music.

By Drug People. For Drug People.

This is awesome dudes.

The Ideoloogical/Crusading Aspect

Excerpts from a gem I turned up on the US Department of Justice website circa 2000.* Props where they’re Due: for once in their history the DEA actually almost got the Facts Straight!

*The DEA has since ‘updated’ their LSD ‘information’ and replaced what follows with a predictable honkey-load of Bull. My pal MG Tank had the forsight to print this up at the time…

Paper [has] emerged as the most popular means of distributing LSD. The paper squares are easy to conceal and transport. Unique designs can be applied to the paper to make the drug more appealing to young users and to serve as brand identification. Unlike the administration of other drugs, particularly the injection of heroin, the method of LSD ingestion (oral) is unobtrusive. Moreover, the non-commercial social philosophy of the environment surrounding LSD use & sales makes it difficult for young people to view LSD as a dangerous drug.

In contrast to the trafficking of other drugs, in which profit is the sole motivating factor, LSD trafficking has assumed an ideological or crusading aspect. The influence of — and probable distribution by — certain psychedelic generation gurus has created a secretiveness and marketing mystique to LSD, particularly at the higher echelons of traffic. Their belief in the beneficent properties of LSD has been, over the years, as strong a motivating factor in the production and distribution of the drug as the profits to be made from its sale.

Large amounts of LSD have been seized by drug enforcement authorities during the last several years, and numerous distributors have been arrested and convicted. Those at the upper echelon, however, continue to evade the law. These individuals appear to run an efficient and profitable operation that is difficult to penetrate.

Current Trafficking and Distribution

Traditionally, retail-level LSD distribution networks in the united states have been comprised of individuals who have known each other through long association or common interests. This has facilitated not only hand-to-hand sales of the drug, but a proliferation of mail order sales. DEA reporting indicates that LSD is available in at least retail quantities in virtually every state…and that availability is increasing in a number of states. Northern California appears to be the source of supply for most of the LSD available in the United States.

LSD is usually transported in two ways from the San Francisco Bay Area. First, overnight delivery services, including express mail, Federal Express, and DHL, are used extensively to transport large amounts of LSD throughout the United States. Second, LSD is shipped to major distributors in cities that host concerts of the ‘Grateful Dead’ band. The concerts are used as a forum for large-scale LSD distribution, as well as low-level or retail sales. In addition, intelligence reveals that major transactions are consummated at these events. Local police agencies have consistently reported that LSD use rises significantly prior to the concert and persists for a period after the band leaves town.

And that was a splendorous Fact.

But the fact @ street level today (as it was when this appeared on the DEA site in ’00) is: save the rarest exception there is not a decent Dose to be had in the United States of America. Hasn’t been since shortly after Jerry died. Certainly there is no way to trust the quality of whatever may be marketed as LSD. My advice to the Youth: do yourself a favor and steer clear.

And that’s sad to say.

+$!

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!”

+$!

poet without equal

Something got me to think tonight about my old friend Herb Caen.

Herb Caen — I bet my cool blog-buddy Velma agrees — is among the finest Observers of our time. A master of prescience & a gifted comic to boot.

Velma is from northern California. Somewhere around my age? I think. So she maybe top-of-her brain recalls, as I do, the title to his 1.17.1991 San Francisco Chronicle column. It was 2 days after the ‘deadline’ set by the first Bush for Saddam Hussein to withdraw from Kuwait. Caen’s column ran that day behind a front page heralding the start of the first Gulf War; when US bombs first rained on Iraq.

The Other Shoe

As opposed to the other Other Shoe. Which can’t seem to stop catastrophically dropping.

I do think it true that the media are addicted to Bad News. Everyone buys newspapers with headlines like WAR & City Sunk & President Shot. CNN in 1991 was a brand new 24 Hour News network looking for a 24 Hour News story. A line is drawn in some far-off sand & voila! Their 24 Hour News story: On in perpetuity.

Do conglomerate rackets like the Chronicle’s actually start wars to sell more papers? Shit — they may.

Herb Caen only wrote about War when he had to. Not overly often — and clearly he liked it that way.

IT’S THE dramatically sudden appearance of more men in uniform than you’ve ever seen on the streets — symbols of a giant awakening to conflict, perhaps to blot out the peace and loveliness of All This . . .
+ Herb Caen
What is San Francisco?
Oct. 22 1940

Caen’s Chronicle column ran daily from the late 1930’s until his death in 1997. A thousand words wrote 5 days weekly for 60 years. Fifteen million words; Herb Caen wrote something about everything. But mostly of his splendid love for the City.

Bet if he were 20-years-old today he’d blog about San Francisco. On good days for the heart-leap Fun of it. Other days Herb Caen would do it because it’s in his blood so he has to.
gg.jpg
Mr. Caen single-handedly coined the terms Beatnik (“they’re only Beat when it comes to work…” ) & Hippie. Like hitting the Daily Double on some cosmic poetry race…

He had a Knack for the angle you’ll read nowhere else:

SCOOPLET: When Garcia died last Wed. morning, Todd Anderson gasped, “I hope it wasn’t something he ate.” That’s because Jerry had his last meal Tuesday night at Piatti in Mill Valley, which Anderson manages. Garcia and his wife, Deborah, sat on the deck, held hands and ate artichoke hearts and pasta. “He looked awful,” says Anderson, “but he was as friendly as ever.”
+ The Rambling Wreck 8.15.1995

The Herb Caen I knew never doubted his allegience. Him & Jerry both felt proud of their Heros & laughed out loud at the Fools.

[Letter Writer] Jeff Watson asks, “How many Deadheads does it take to change a lightbulb?” A. “They just watch it burn out and follow it around for 25 years” . . . Aww, get a life yourself.
+ Three Dot Drifter 8.21.1995

His signature column style — a thousand niftily arranged words on a dozen topics separated by ellipses ( … ) — is indicative of not so much columnist as Poet.

San Francisco’s Poet in Chief.

No Comic Relief here on our speedWay: after reading Ishtar’s stunner on her Baghdad taxi ride the day Civil War struck Iraq. It was a video of Hunter Thompson — an old pen-pal of Caen’s — on Conan O’Brien. Classically funny. But it seems Conan’s conglom-o-racket Yanked it…yes I think it was Money Related…well whichever way, it is Gone.

So goes.

Safe travels for Ishtar. Go Saints! Happy Birthday — and 1,000 thaks for keeping the Torch lit for the Late — to Anita T!

Play for Peace & pray for Fun please.

I lived in San Francisco for a year in the early ’90s. During that time I read Herb’s column insatiably. I looked forward to it when I woke up in the morning; I read him like a drug.

Herb Caen is my favorite kind of writer — one I’ve never met yet happily know is my Friend. My hero.

Always in the money like my nigaa scrappy T.

Smart fast & funny like I wish I could be.