It was a beautiful Sunday morning as we finished breakfast at one of favorite little stops on the way down the mountain (it's The Getaway Cafe,before the bug station in Meyers). I am the kind of guy who once gets behind the wheel doesn't want to stop until I have to, but springtime in the Sierras slows me down enough to appreciate the beauty of it and the rushing American River.
We got through Sacramento and up I80 to SF without a hitch rolling in about the same time the fog lifted at 1:30PM or so. Our hotel checkin wasn't until 3, so I did a little tourism, as Rubi (a naitive San Franciscan) had never been to Coit Tower. So we killed a little time and money $4.50 to ride a rickety assed elevator,but the view was worth it.
Before we knew it it was check-in time and we pulled into the 55PARC hotel, a block from the Warfield, and got a room on the 14th floor(it was awesome), a little rest a few drinks and it was off to Market Street. The usual Tenderloin zoo was in full force as we patiently waited to get inside and when we did we were seated at a table about midway through the first floor (disabled seating) and after settling in we split up the cubensis and waited for both the show and the other things to come on.
And just as we start to feel funny, (I was wearing my wizard hat) and someone handed this old wizard a big brown vial...now I am very experienced but this night of DIAMONDS was the most micrograms I think I have ever done at once, and damn was it awesome. It seemed the backdrop was something organic moving and changing colors (or maybe it wasn't) From the opening notes of Come Together > Dark Star with Bobby Weir,Molo,and Phil, I knew we were in for a special treat. And it truly met all of our expectations, it was such a night (and morning) Then as things got stranger and stranger, and more and more colorful and beautiful I ran into an old friend named Hugh Romney a.k.a. Wavy Gravy, who said high and graced our presence for a few minutes. By this time the second set had started with Jackie and Larry doing a several beautiful acoustic numbers. SET LIST
Phil Lesh & Friends Sunday, May 18th, 2008 Warfield Theater, San Francisco, California
Prior to 1st Set: Phil comes out and says "It's going to be a long night, so settle in and get comfortable." He then says there will be a lot of special guests and special music and they are not really sure what they are going to play, "just like the old days."
1st Set
(78 Minutes 9:17pm – 10:35pm)
Phil Lesh, Bob Weir, & John Molo
Come Together >
(BW) Dark Star > (Phil sang 1st verse, Bob sang 2nd verse)
Loose Lucy (BW) West L.A. Fadeaway * (BW)
The Wheel > *
Not Fade Away *
* with Jeff Chimenti from Ratdog and Larry Campbell
Phil introduces Jeff Chimenti and Bob Weir, calling Bob "my prodigal brother."
Phil then says "Bob, John, & I have been wanting to do that for a long time and I am glad you got to see it."
2nd Set
(29 Minutes 10:44pm – 11:13pm)
Acoustic Set w/Larry Campbell & Jackie Green
Lorene
Sing Me Back Home
Deep Elem Blues (LC on lead vocals)
Texas Crapshooter
The Warfield Waltz (as introduced by LC)
Love Please Come Home
Goodnight Irene
3rd Set
(90 Minutes 11:40pm – 1:10am)
Phil Lesh & Friends
Shakedown Street >
Like a Ball & Chain
Big River (LC on lead vocals)
Mississippi Half-Step * >
Althea * Mexican Girl *
Stella Blue (Instrumental) * >
Sugaree *
* with Mark Karan from Ratdog
4th Set
(15 Minutes 1:15am – 1:30am)
"Skinny Singers" Jackie Green & Tim Bluhm
The Ballad of Spider John
Where The Rain Don't Go
Squeaky Wheel * * with Nicki Bluhm on backing vocals
5th Set
(90 Minutes 1:55am – 3:25am)
Phil Lesh & Friends
(Balloons drop from the ceiling)
Sugar Magnolia
Unbroken Chain >
Mountains of the Moon >
Terrapin (Inspiration) >
I Know You Rider
Donor Rap, Band
Intros
E: Jam > * Truckin' > * And We Bid You Goodnight
* * with Mark Karan from Ratdog
All in all it was one of the most fantastic shows I have attended in a very very long time, and I have been going to shows since I was a pup of 13, I am so proud to say I have turned my wife into a true deadhead, who enjoys them as much as I do, and I know,
On the verge of becoming the presumptive Democratic nominee for president, Sen. Barack Obama (Ill.) has renewed his commitment to protecting medical marijuana patients from arrest and jail.
"Voters and legislators in the states — from California to Nevada to Maine — have decided to provide their residents suffering from chronic diseases and serious illnesses like AIDS and cancer with medical marijuana to relieve their pain and suffering. Obama supports the rights of states and local governments to make this choice — though he believes medical marijuana should be subject to (U.S. Food and Drug Administration) regulation like other drugs."
With Sen. Obama now widely expected to win the Democratic nomination and in a year when Democrats are favored to win the White House, this means we might be only eight months away from having a White House that stands with us on medical marijuana access.
In the months leading up to the New Hampshire Democratic primary election, MPP helped persuade all of the Democratic presidential candidates and three of the Republican candidates to pledge to end the arrest of patients in states with medical marijuana laws.
In response to questions from MPP on the campaign trail, Sen. Obama stated that arresting medical marijuana patients is not a good use of resources and promised to end the federal raids on state medical marijuana patients and their caregivers.
Sen. Hillary Clinton (D-N.Y.) has also promised MPP that she would end the raids.
Unfortunately, the Republican presidential nominee, Sen. John McCain (Ariz.), earned a grade of "F" from MPP for his inhumane stance on medical marijuana. In response to repeated questions from MPP on the campaign trail, Sen. McCain incorrectly stated that a majority of medical experts oppose medical marijuana, and he also gave a patient who was politely questioning him a glimpse of McCain's famous temper.
Congressman Ron Paul (R-Tex.), who also remains in the Republican race, has been an outspoken opponent of marijuana prohibition and has consistently voted in favor of legislation to end the DEA's raids on patients.
MPP is the only drug policy reform organization that's systematically influencing the presidential candidates to take positive positions on medical marijuana — and punishing those who don't. Would you please consider making a donation to support our work today?
Sincerely,
Rob Kampia Executive Director Marijuana Policy Project Washington, D.C.
P.S. As I've mentioned in previous alerts, a major philanthropist has committed to match the first $3.0 million that MPP can raise from the rest of the planet in 2008. This means that your donation today will be doubled.
P.P.S. You can opt out of receiving fundraising mentions in the e-mail alerts I send you in 2008 by visiting www.mpp.org/2008optoutpreference at your convenience.
Dale the Porche Guy(a real A55HAT)
Category: Blogging
FIRST AND LAST EXPERIENCE AT A "DEAD-HEAD" CONCERT
--------------------------------------------------
A few years ago some friends of mine decided to take me to a dead-head concert.
I had never been to one and knew little about the Grateful Dead. They bought
a ticket for me so how could I refuse? I asked them what songs the Dead wrote
that made it to top-40, but the ones they mentioned were unfamiliar to me. I
drove my car to Park West, Utah were I met the others.
After arriving we all walked up to the outdoor concert area. It was a long
walk, but it was a beautiful day. Along the way I began to notice people
dressed in strange tie-die shirts wearing beads and sandals and I was reminded
of old Dragnet episodes from the 1960s. I remarked to my friend how odd they
looked and asked him what kind of concert this way going to be. He turned to
me and said,
"You’re going to meet some of the most fun loving, good-natured people around."
"Oh, marvelous." I thought sarcastically. But, I tried to forget this and
concentrate on having a good time. I was, after all, basically a conservative
professional-type and my friends were trying to do me a favor by getting me out
of the house and I appreciated their generosity.
Further along the walk we came across a dilapidated yellow-school bus and
several oxidized VW-vans with pandemonium painted on the sides. In front of
these were people, who can only be described as freaks, selling buttons,
bumper-stickers, a miscellaneous assortment of dead-head memorabilia which
primary constituent was junk, and tuna-fish sandwiches that were slowly
corroding in the hot sun. My friend revealed to me that these poor,
unfortunate souls that I termed "bus-people" made money to support their
meager, destitute existence by travelling from concert to concert selling these
items. A girl wearing a stained, multi-color dress that jingled when she
walked asked me if I wanted a sandwich.
"Boy, they’re making my stomach growl just looking at them," I said with a
smile, "but I think I’ll grab something later on."
We entered the concert area and found a spot to sit. It was a perfect, cool
but sunny day and I thought it might be enjoyable after all. As we were
waiting for the concert to begin the crowd keep pouring in. We were
frequently trampled on by people trying to get above us; clothed in the
familiar cacophonous colored garb and having extremely long, greasy, unkempt
hair, filthy hands that felt gritty and left hand-prints as they used your
shoulder for balance, and feet so dirty they were the color of ebony. Many of
them carried the dismal tuna-fish sandwiches and most had the 1,000-yard stare
of vacant contentment one would see at religious revival gatherings. The odor
of marijuana permeated the area and joints were often passed down long lines of
people.
The music finally began after what seemed to be hours of waiting. The songs
were somewhat repetitious and long, but at first not unpleasant. During one
tune, a man wearing soiled, bright-purple leotards, a flame-red cape, black-
boots, a lone-ranger mask and a tattered shirt began dancing around us. He was
one of the bus-people obviously loaded on a hallucinogenic and his person, long
overdue for a bath, exuded a putrid miasma. After the completion of several
convoluted dance routines he stuck out his upraised palm in an attempt to
panhandle money. A few flipped quarters but I would have given $50 if I could
have bought a bar a soap to toss to him.
I noted a small collection of men wearing what appeared to be women’s night
gowns dancing and eating saltine crackers out of a box as fast as they could
manage to stuff them into their mouths. One of them said something to me
through a crumpled bolus of crackers and saliva but it was unintelligible.
I nodded at him with a smile, which he returned displaying teeth that had
seriously neglected flossing, let alone brushing, for the better whole of his
lamentable life. These people seemed content, but this was probably due to
being maintained on drugs since no sensible person would remain happy living in
such squalor without depersonalizing themself through the aid of a chemical.
As the songs progressed I began to get tired of the seemingly endless length
of them. Themes were reiterated again and again to the point of fatigue.
It was becomming difficult to distinguish one song from another and I
frequently found myself longing for the short blessings of relief that came
inbetween. Soon I was concentrating on everything but the music; the time,
the sky, my back-ache, the bus-people, and the wonderful idea to exit early -
but I remained so as not to insult my friends because they had so much wanted
me to have a good time (a decision I would come to utterly regret later).
Then a very frightening thing happened. One of the group of us had a cup of
punch and offered me a drink and I drank some. Half an hour later I began
to feel strange and a slight euphoria was present. I then realized that the
punch probably contained LSD-25 and I was instantly filled with rage to think
someone would be so crude as to "dose" someone else without their knowledge.
A small argument ensued and I was accused of being naive about punch at
dead-head concerts. I asked how long I could expect this to last and was told
12-hours. I had never taken a hallucinogenic but I knew enough to know that
a person having a bad time would have A REALLY BAD time if they imbibed it.
This only compounded this unendurable situation. I never have and never will
forgive the person who so irresponsibly gave me the drug.
The remainder of the concert was strange and at times scary. I spent a lot of
time looking at clouds and what seemed to be hours examining the grain and
texture of a grass blade. The bus-people’s idiosyncracies that disgusted me
before now seemed to be magnified several-fold and nearly horrified me. Their
multi-colored atire now seemed to smear about during their gyrations and my
stomach was infected with sickness that intensified when I looked at them. I
wanted to leave. Now! Immediately! I couldn’t stand it any longer. I would
have given anything if a helicopter would have landed and armed guards would
have escorted me out of that deplorable place.
Finally the concert finished and I rose, clapped and cheered because of the
warm feeling I had that it was over. I said rapid goodbyes and hurried to my
car. I was not unable to drive as I must have had only a low dose.
Unfortunately, the line of traffic was enormous and I was stuck near the end of
a row so my car sat idling for a long time. While I waited, a group of dirt-
bags were sitting on a truck and looking at my car. I could hear them
ridiculing me for some reason. Finally, a girl came up to my car window,
looked me straight in the eyes with a glare of anger and said with sarcasm,
"What kind of man would bring a Porsche to a dead-head concert?"
I spoke to her with a smile and tried to calm her down, but it was to no avail.
She began to utter obscenities and I rolled up the window. This antagonized
her and the clique of idiots she was with. Several sat on the front of my car
and a few hopped on the rear bumper. They rocked the car back and forth while
spewing out a stream of insults. One imbecile standing on the side of my car
threw a large cup of coke which burst down the window and side of the car. I
sat inside helpless and sickened by this pinnnacle event to a thoroughly rotton
day.
An opening occurred in the line and I drove off. Had the opening been longer
or wider I would have opened up the 911 and tossed the miserable excuses for
human beings to the asphault. I was so upset by the event and everything else
that I drove over 110 mph down the canyon to get home. I washed the car, took
a shower and considered sanitizing my clothing with fire.
As of this day, the words "Dead-Head" bring back visions of those angry,
moronic pieces of human dung jumping on my car, glaring at me with hollow eyes
while screaming filth as dirty as their own offensive, disgusting bodies.
The majority of scum I came in contact that day were an insult to the image
of decent, hard-working people everywhere. Quite the opposite reaction to the
visions of loving, fun people we hear who attend these concerts.
SECOND, AND POSITIVELY THE *LAST* SHOW I EVER WANT TO SEE ---------------------------------------------------------
By Dale W. Clark a.k.a. "The Porsche Guy", "Tuna Breath", "Yuppie Scum", etc.
Ladies, Gentlemen, Horses and Mules. (Well I guess that takes in all of you). I was asked to go to this Vegas ’thing’ and no one, not even God, knows why I agreed. I thought I had a bad time 5 years ago, but nothing could have prepared me for this experience. I went along thinking that perhaps since I’ve mellowed out as I’m getting older, (I’m 32) I may have been a little ’tight’ last time. The trip to LV was fine, I hit 146 mph on a long stretch of road for a brief time. We stayed at Caesar’s Palace and spent some time gambling the night before. While everyone else went to bed, I stayed-up and went on a good hearty dusk-to-dawn rampage, hitting almost every casino and bar on the strip. Losing a fair amount of money was, without doubt, the beginning of a hellish weekend.
Getting to the stadium was not half-the-fun. I was glad to ride in a car other than mine; I’m sure I would have been placing $68,000.00 in jeopardy. When I awoke the day of the concert I felt like Mike Tyson beginning round 29, I knew I was in Mark’s van, but I had no idea how I got there. I fell back to sleep until I was aware that we were apparently in a line waiting to get in as the sounds of the road had stopped banging my sore brain up and down. I woke up to the sight of a huge bony black lab which had burrowed his nose in my armpit and I had scratched myself red in my sleep. Mark’s dog, Max, smelled like it had ejaculated all over itself.
There were literally hundreds of shitty, rust-infected bombs in a long hideous parade, and we sat waiting, and waiting, and waiting for hours. As we sat, I observed the general appearance of the people on the way to the show. Several dead-heads had already been arrested on the side of the road, and were being loaded into Las Vegas police cars. "Ye-Gods", I said out-loud, "I hope I haven’t let you guys talk me into another fiasco like the last one." My friend Mark grinned and admitted to me that he liked taking me to things like this just to see my reaction to them. "Hell Dale, last time listening to you was a hoot! You were a riot!" After saying this, I felt my stomach utterly drop like I just swallowed a cup of raw cookie dough.
When we finally pulled into the parking lot, amid the cooing of my friends about how beautiful and fun-loving this was going to be, I was immediately met by the contemptuous glower of a mid-twenties, overly made-up, body-rotted, battle-ax who was munching demonstratively on carrot sticks and not doing a very good job of containing the chewed stuff. I was not wearing levis nor a hole-ridden shirt and she looked me up and down as if I just murmured explicit sexual fantasies involving cattle.
The parking lot was a gigantic flea market of secondhand trash having no beneficial purpose, use, or worth to anyone in their right mind. The scrapped rags, papers, glass, and metals were being vended by terrifying, glass-eyed hippies, who were also attempting to extort money with beads and rattles and sententious remarks about living and dying for the Grateful Dead. I broused around the wabbling, junk covered card-board tables in a few isles and then, there they were, low and behold: tuna-fish sandwiches. I kid you not! However, I felt that at $2.00, they were just slightly above the usually budgeted expenditure for decomposed Osteichthyes. Entering into the stadium and finding a place to pause, I was immediately hit with two things: the first was a whiny, skrieky request to put out my cigarette; the second, and more offensive, was the smell of the people standing around me.
The band ’Sting’ opened the dreary spectacle and it started raining as if God was illustrating his manifest sorrow for the gravely unfortunate living conditions of the bus-people. Their personal appearance clearly demonstrated a withdrawl from reality and conventional society and their juvenile behavior and dress was a general rejection of life’s mores. We moved around a bit in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, but I knew I was getting to close to the collection of loosely-knit, nonconformists when I spotted them drinking what appeared to be pressed industrial waste from a Thermos. I didn’t even want to rub shoulders and get it spilled on me, then be treated to the mind-bending technicolor venue I got 5 years ago.
So many of the people there think the most frightening things are in vogue, and dead-heads seem to be able to find them like a bird spots a worm from atop a tree. Flamboyant and discordant colors, grotesque deformities, designs that cannot possibly be other than bad, and aside from striking novelty, there is nothing good about them. Some of the conspicuously repulsive dresses should have been relegated to the trash can years ago.
Standing there in the pouring rain with a huge, gnawing, pounding headache making me cringe like the sound of a fire engine’s siren blasting through a traffic jam. Along with a haze of several thousand mosquitoes and Mark’s stupid dog who sat there with that stupid grateful look labs have whether your feeding them or whacking them over the head with a stick. I knew this was a dreadful mistake. It didn’t take long before I knew to the full how terrible this situation was. There was no way of dropping through the ground or waking myself up.
The meal of music being served was endless; each course equally unappetizing and abominably served. The show itself was tehnically atrocious. It was incredible, apalling really, that the Grateful Dead would show such disdain for their audience by obviously not even practicing enough to remember their own lyrics. To add to the sleep- inducing chords were broken strings and a variety of equipment which was not working.
Some poor, pathetic, destitute man was struck by lightning in the parking lot and several other times I wondered if God’s wrath was about to come upon the place in the form of lightning bolts. While I was standing there, cursing my fucking lifetime friend for talking me into this mess, I felt something hit me in the back of the neck. Then I felt another. I turned around and was astounded to see people throwing marshmellows at each other! Just when did this little custom start? Mark and the others were looking at the expression on my face, along with the statements I was making and apparently enjoying every minute of it. Mark patted me on the back and said, "Oh, Dale. You’re the life of the party!"
Near the end of the show, some fruit-cake jumped onto the stage and was immediately removed by security. We left, finally, after what seemed to be days. My hangover admittedly compounded my suffering, but I’m sorry, I didn’t have any better of a time this go around. No, I won’t go again. Don’t ask me.
VISIT TO A DEAD-HEAD’S TRAILER ------------------------------
I have to preface this first. First, I do not wish to offend anyone with my stories, but in the course of my illustrations I am forced to use words which depict the reality of a situation more clearly. I am perfectly aware that many dead-heads have room temperature IQ’s, can’t multiply more than 12 times 12 in their head without getting sick, and as a result of their inanition from eating foods touted as being for Total Wellness, the size of their popularity matches their pay vouchers. As a consequence I’ll probably be inundated with enough obloquy to fill up a moderate-sized hard disk.
You know, one of the things I didn’t mention were some of the women at the concert. Mark found his girlfriend at a dead concert, if there were girl shows like there are cat shows, her category would have been "Luscious Blond Ditz" and she’d have been a cinch for "Best of Breed." Just looking at her causes the male anatomy to intumesce. Part of the reason I let myself get talked into going was a fruitless hope I might be as lucky. Instead, all I was flooded with were knobby-elbowed, blotchy-skinned hippie women, some of whom had keloids the size of an average 7-11 cookie on their backs.
After the show, Mark took me to meet some friends of his girlfriend in LV, who are really into these concerts. The house trailer we went to was just as I imagined it would be. A small, cramped, dingy and undecorated barn of a place with a drippy roof. I was not at all suprised that the place was home to about a dozen scrawny cats and dogs who were free to come and go as they pleased because the doors wouldn’t shut. Unfortunately, these animals were as much as the humans the victims of a grossly unsatisfying meal we were offered - a brown broth containing shriveled fungus, and little chunks of something that most closely resembled florist’s sponges. It was capped with a floating clump of itchy, bitter, woolly bean sprouts that looked like an unkempt pubic bush. And so, in their desperation for something tasty, the dogs combed around the trailer and their neighbor’s yards for carrion, garbage and cat turds.
Further enhancing the opulence of this boudoir was the fact that, because health brands of flea and tick shampoo and clove-scented flea collars are completely lame, and the fact that these typical dead-heads were too softhearted to kill insects - the maximum extent of their brutality is either to shoo them away or take them outside with the utmost care, even if it’s a wasp - each section of the trailer was infested with fleas and flea eggs, and each beast was the site of a thriving entomological microcosm. Also, as a result of using health-based organic remedies and products - insisting all the while they were just as effective as the stuff Dow Chemical makes - the mildew ran wild. Either that or perhaps one of the members of the Grateful Dead band proclaimed in some song that mold was a sentient being and thus sacred, so they refused on moral grounds to combat it.
"Hey." was the only thing the guy could manage to say to me before the speech centers in his brain shut down and he became aphasic. He offered me a limp paw of a handshake. While I was sitting there, trying to watch television through a haze of insects, the wife of ’Barry’ I think his name was, offered me a cookie. Seeing me eyeing the bowel-colored discs skeptically, "It’s carob." she said, "It tastes just like chocolate." "Sure," I replied, "and monkey piss tastes like bonded bourbon." There wasn’t any kind of soft drink in the house and it was hot last Saturday. So I had the choice between water or vegetable juice - home made stuff that was run through their new juicer which excreted a hearty glass of dirt-flavored juice topped with a sparkling tier of dirt-flavored foam. While the heads greeted each gulp with slurping glee, I was gagging from the first sip all the way until the dreadful moment I realized I had just licked away a kale/rhubarb-flavored foam mustache.
I had a small bag of Cheetos I grabbed from the car and as I ate each one the dogs would sit and watch me with a mournful look. When I went to give one to one of the dogs, a horrible dog-fight errupted between all three over which one was to receive it. Finally I through down the bag. (One of them happened to be a pit-bull). When I went into the bathroom, I was greeted with a thick, noxious atmosphere from an unflushed toilet. I had to flush three times to empty the huge, beefy, pillars of extrusion into the sewer, which left a gagging pall of death that all but caused the wall-paper to peal. No doubt the result of sundering their bowels with a diet of bulgur and goat’s cheese they enjoyed for breakfast.
Needless to say, I didn’t wish to stay long and I looked at my watch frequently and pointed to the car behind their backs so only Mark could see me. Finally, I recalled an imaginary appointment with an old-time friend back at the hotel, enabling us to withdraw fairly quickly. But it has left an enduring stipple on my mind. Is this the way only a small minority, moderate, or majority of dead-heads live out their lives? Surely in this computerized reticulation it should be possible to take a poll and find out.
-- PROLOGUE --------
Some of you have wondered (many with heated rancor), why I read this group and/or post to it. Some have had the temerity to suggest that I seek some form of adoration from the net. Ridiculous. I read this group because I was attempting to find out more about the followers of the dead, why someone could exist in abject servile committment to a mere band, and, simply, to determine the attraction.
So, for the last time I make a final submission as I am on my way out the door, hopefully to bigger and better things. In any event, I will again, no doubt in vain, to at least try to say that the things being described below do NOT, I repeat NOT, NOT apply to everyone. I am not calling everyone or any individual names or attempting to group all fans of the grateful dead into one catagory. Many of you have sent me very kind remarks over the years, unfeigned or affected, and I have appreciated it very much. It is these people who have had good laughs and appreciate the substance of sarcasm. It has been a pleasure to talk with you. And now, hopefully this will hit close to home... :-)
G-DEAD NET AND THE STEREOTYPES ------------------------------
As I have said, reading your news group has satisfied a great deal of my curiosity. Satisfied it to the point that what you are about to read is based largely on this information. The net furnishes a large cross section and therefore was an excellent way to confirm my suspicions. There are obviously a plethora of different types of people, many are normal, hard- working, decent people, however, if one were to stereotype two main types of ardent devotees to the dead, who are out of the main-stream of reality, I believe they would be these:
TYPE 1: ------- While many of the followers of the dead are nihilistic left-overs from the 1960s, some appear to be ’diphasic yuppies’, who quietly sneak out of their Central Park West Penthouse, climb on a bus or into a VW van, and set out for the next spectacle, not before slipping into archiac tie-dyed garb. They then proceed to loudly pretend to detest money, jobs, opulence, Aspirin, Top-siders and Rolex watches - all of which they have back home.
When I have received mail from these types, severely reproofing the fact I have a certain type of automobile, I’ve had to reach into the desk drawer for bromides I keep next to the bottle of Percodan. News like that has signaled my duodenum on some occasions to march out the gastrointestinal gestapo. This type generally keeps a low profile to avoid getting flamed for being what they are.
There was one man, no longer employed here, who followed the gdead net and went to many concerts. I shall keep his name anonymous for obvious reasons, but I will recount one of the several conversations we had about the dead.
His ’cube’ was a disorganized array of bewildering objects. He usually appeared late, and often hungover, in dishabille attire. Even when important eschelons were in town he would show up wearing bizarre costumes that looked like they were designed by Rouben Ter-Arutunian on acid. He had a wild concupiscence for women, and drove a rust-contaminated, bowel-brown, Dodge- van with the familiar ’skull and cross-bones’ in a dirty, cracked rear window.
"Hey man." he said to me in the hall, after reading the first posting I made back in 1988, "I’d like to talk to ya." He was friendly, make no mistake. I came back later and sat next to his desk, and was intrigued about his point of view.
"Man, Dale." he said with a smile, as he leaned over so close I could count the pits and holes in his nose. "You really got a lot of people pissed-off. Shouldn’t insult the dead-heads man, they’ll get nasty." We spent the next several minutes talking about the dead and their followers and he confessed to being an avid pursuer of the band, but harbored no ill-will towards me. The conversation turned more serious as I asked him, "Why all the hubbub? Are these fanatic servants of the dead just hippie victims who refuse to admit the third digit in the year is no longer ’6’, or is this really such a magnetic, nearly sanctimonious, commune who disect the lyrics in the hope of finding a sacred code to guide them through life?"
He pinched the corners of his mouth just a tad tighter, revealing the black abyss where his bridgework stopped and gave way to naked gum. The snarl wrinkles on the bridge of his nose suddenly rolled into each other, and he thought for a while. I think the question kind of made him angry as he told me, rather curtly, the Grateful Dead was nothing more than a band with a devoted type of following. He was a yuppie who just liked to ’change’ into hippie clothes and "get away from work sometimes. It’s like a hobby."
"Why the resentment for today’s mores? The rejection of society? This really is one of the few remaining appendages of the 60s isn’t it?" I asked. It was becomming clear that underneath his wired smile he didn’t like me, and more important, my lifestyle. Underneath you could tell he longed for the 60s to somehow return and his eyes would sparkle and become cloudy every time he recalled it.
"Yeah, a lot of us miss those days, and people on the net talk about it a lot, so what?" he said, barking out a foul belch redolent with day-old luncheon meat and decades-old disillusionment. Making comments about the 1960s era had made him more angry than discussing the dead. I was suddenly tempted to think he had just picked up a pine cone in his anal canal except when he passed gas it was foul. He liked to fart and really enjoyed it. One could almost say he was downright proud. It was disgusting to everyone but him, he only thought it was funny. In fact, he was such a windbag that he is even known by former workers and associates (and probably toilet attendants) for this trait from coast to coast. He would even walk up to managers or supervisors, shake hands and and while smiling say something like, "Hey man, how’s it hangin’?" and let off a bomber, all in the same breath. If we really wanted to get back at someone, we’d just ask him to sneak up on someone in their cube and let go a long, drawn out silencer that would stagnate around their area and leave a putrid odor drifting around for hours.
"Sort of goes along with what I’ve been saying, dosn’t it?" I asked, "That a lot of these people are remnants of the 60s?"
"Maybe.", he said, unaware he was nervously picking open an old eczema scab on his wrist. We ended the conversation, but had several more over a short period of time before he left the company. I have no idea where he is now. If he’s somewhere reading this, please believe I appreciated your point of view and enjoyed our conversations. We never were able to ’pin-down’ my suggestion about othe 60s though.
TYPE 2: ------- The majority of net postings from heads with an excessive and irrational zeal for the dead will invaribly at some point, post articles reflecting on Great Dope Droughts of the sixties; sweatings over yearly shortfalls of pot in January when new crops are being harvested; worres in September when they run out of Panama Red and are down to musty Mexican or lousey homegrown. The worst, of course is when their personal stash is down to sticks and seeds. Many are convinced the CIA monitors the net, the band, and them, and are trying eagerly to ferret out traitors of the United States which they are convinced will be them if they give out their real name or address. This type of follower is in general an ’paranoid parasitical Maoist.’
Usually in deep financial shit; i.e., credit cards (if they have any) are tapped to the top, they are heavily into the cash reserve of a checking account, and their ’fascist’ landlord wants them to square-up the past due rent. So, they pack-up the miserably few destitute belongings they have and leave everyone hip-deep in shit, all the while convincing themselves they are on some kind of personally invigorating religious quest for truth and beauty - so society ’owes’ them financial freedom. The only thing which seems to flush away their toilet of worries and concerns is to attend g-dead concerts where there always seems to be someone they can dig-up who will sucker-in to their surreptitious rapaciousness and provide them with tuna sandwiches and clean sheets. Even if it’s only for one or two days, they will then find another gullible lolipop and puddle jump to the next nearest purlieu which in turn gradually gets them across the States to follow the dead. The network seems to assist them on their expedition of bloodsucking. They locate a sucker and appear grateful, all the while holding the poor victim up to ridicule behind their back for having gainful employment. They haven’t much longanimity and bitterly complain and whine in effort to obtain the maximum yield from each person being duped.
Sometimes you see them on the way to a concert, giving a lift to as many people as they can stuff into their car like a sausage (usually in exchange for filling their car up completely with gas, lodging, meals, and anything else comestible, or for that matter, pawnable). They either spoil the show for everyone else or wear out their welcome with frightening speed, as they walk into your abode as if it’s their own, unpack where they please, and waltz directly into the kitchen where they open the refrigerator door and, while helping themselves to whatever you have, ask what’s coming up on TV tonight and tell you you won’t mind if they make a few phone calls - will you.
The end up being ejected after one or two days, leaving behind a ransacked, soiled house and a person who now questions the goodness of the human race and vows "never to do that again." Finding the next sucker, they’ll apply an overdose of unctuous balm, making the person feel they have just found a good friend and comrade, at the same time they’ll curse the last victim as being a "cheap and rude sonuvabitch who threw us out." This process continues like a chain of dominos as they pillage and take advantage of the generosity of host to host. They either dress in tattered scraps purchased from shows or whatever they can get from the Dorcas society.
Generally, they will at some point in their lives obtain employment, but usually for only very brief periods of time and in wholly facile, undignified and unworthy occupations. Sometimes they will quit the same day they start, claiming either that the company executives are ’shitstain dictators’, or that someone stole their wallet, and violently storm out. Normally they either gain admittance to shows without paying admission, vend shoddy products to pay for a ticket, or acquire admission by begging and sponging. If they fail to attend a single exhibition it can induce profound extended depression and they’ll sulk about it for years. As soon as they return from a show, they are known to instantly insert the cassette they covertly made of the band and turn it up a deafening level, yearning that the entire performance was commencing again and would continue incessantly until time itself came to an end.
Well, those are the two ’worst’ types that can be ’pegged.’ I hope you enjoyed this posting - I am sure most of you know someone who falls into the type 1 or 2 catagory. Have fun at concerts - hope you don’t run into any of these types, or, if you do, make sure you greet them with their proper form of address: "Stay back!"
Published on Wednesday, May 2, 2007 by The San Francisco Chronicle
The Hippies Were Right! Green homes? Organic food? Nature is good? Time To Give The Ol’ Tie-Dyers Some Respect
by Mark Morford
Go ahead, name your movement. Name something good and positive and pro-environment and eco-friendly that’s happening right now in the newly "greening" America and don’t say more guns in Texas or fewer reproductive choices for women or endless vile unwinnable BushCo wars in the Middle East lasting until roughly 2075 because that would defeat the whole point of this perky little column and destroy its naive tone of happy rose-colored sardonic optimism.
OK?
I’m talking about, say, energy-efficient light bulbs. . I’m looking at organic foods going mainstream. I mean chemical-free cleaning products widely available at Target and I’m talking saving the whales and protecting the dolphins and I mean yoga studios flourishing in every small town, giant boxes of organic cereal at Costco and non-phthalates dildos Ben & Jerry’s ice cream at Good Vibes and the Toyota Prius becoming the nation’s oddest status symbol. You know, good things.
Look around: we have entire industries devoted to recycled paper, a new generation of cheap solar-power technology and an Oscar for "An Inconvenient Truth" and even the soulless corporate monsters over at famously heartless joints like Wal-Mart are now claiming that they really, really care about saving the environment because, well, "it’s the right thing to do" (read: It’s purely economic and all about their bottom line because if they don’t start caring they’ll soon be totally screwed on manufacturing and shipping costs at/from all their brutal Chinese sweatshops).
There is but one conclusion you can draw from the astonishing (albeit fitful, bittersweet) pro-environment sea change now happening in the culture and (reluctantly, nervously) in the halls of power in D.C., one thing we must all acknowledge in our wary, jaded, globally warmed universe: The hippies had it right all along. Oh yes they did.
You know it’s true. All this hot enthusiasm for healing the planet and eating whole foods and avoiding chemicals and working with nature and developing the self? Came from the hippies. Alternative health? Hippies. Green cotton? Hippies. Reclaimed wood? Recycling? Humane treatment of animals? Medical pot? Alternative energy? Natural childbirth? Non-GMA seeds? It came from the granola types (who, of course, absorbed much of it from ancient cultures), from the alternative worldviews, from the underground and the sidelines and from far off the goddamn grid and it’s about time the media, the politicians, the culture as a whole sent out a big, wet, hemp-covered apology.
Here’s a suggestion, from one of my more astute ex-hippie readers: Instead of issuing carbon credits so industrial polluters can clear their collective corporate conscience, maybe, to help offset all the savage damage they’ve done to the soul of the planet all these years, these commercial cretins should instead buy some karma credits from the former hippies themselves. You know, from those who’ve been working for the health of the planet, quite thanklessly, for the past 50 years and who have, as a result, built up quite a storehouse of good karma.
You think?
Of course, you can easily argue that much of the "authentic" hippie ethos — the anti-corporate ideology, the sexual liberation, the anarchy, the push for civil rights, the experimentation — has been totally leeched out of all these new movements, that corporations have forcibly co-opted and diluted every single technology and humble pro-environment idea and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream cone and Odwalla smoothie to make them both palatable and profitable. But does this somehow make the organic oils in that body lotion any more harmful? Verily, it does not.
You might also just as easily claim that much of the nation’s reluctant turn toward environmental health has little to do with the hippies per se, that it’s taking the threat of global meltdown combined with the notion of really, really expensive ski tickets to slap the nation’s incredibly obese ass into gear and force consumers to begin to wake up to the savage gluttony and wastefulness of American culture as everyone starts wondering, oh my God, what’s going to happen to swimming pools and NASCAR and free shipping from Amazon? Of course, without the ’60s groundwork, without all the radical ideas and seeds of change planted nearly five decades ago, what we’d be turning to in our time of need would be a great deal more hopeless indeed.
But if you’re really bitter and shortsighted, you could say the entire hippie movement overall was just incredibly overrated, gets far too much cultural credit for far too little actual impact, was pretty much a giant excuse to slack off and enjoy dirty lazy responsibility-free sex romps and do a ton of drugs and avoid Vietnam and not bathe for a month and name your child Sunflower or Shiva Moon or Chakra Lennon Sapphire Bumblebee. This is what’s called the reactionary simpleton’s view. It blithely ignores history, perspective, the evolution of culture as a whole. You know, just like America.
But, you know, whatever. The proofs are easy enough to trace. The core values and environmental groundwork laid by the ’60s counterculture are still so intact and potent even the stiffest neocon Republican has to acknowledge their extant power. It’s all right there: Treehugger. com is the new ’60s underground hippy zine. Ecstasy is the new LSD. Visible tattoos are the new longhairs. And bands as diverse as Pearl Jam to Bright Eyes to NIN to the Dixie Chicks are writing savage anti-Bush, anti-war songs for a new, ultra-jaded generation.
And oh yes, speaking of good ol’ MDMA (Ecstasy), even drug culture is getting some new respect. Staid old Time mag just ran a rather snide little story about the new studies being conducted by Harvard and the National Institute of Mental Health into the astonishing psychospiritual benefits of goodly entheogens such as LSD, psilocybin and MDMA. Unfortunately, the piece basically backhands Timothy Leary and the entire "excessive," "naive" drug culture of yore in favor of much more "sane" and "careful" scientific analysis happening now, as if the only valid methods for attaining knowledge and an understanding of spirit were through control groups and clinical, mysticism-free examination. Please.
Still, the fact that serious scientific research into entheogens is being conducted even in the face of the most anti-science, pro-pharmaceutical, ultra-conservative presidential regime in recent history is proof enough that all the hoary old hippie mantras about expanding the mind and touching God through drugs were onto something after all (yes, duh). Tim Leary is probably smiling wildly right now — though that might be due to all the mushrooms he’s been sharing with Kerouac and Einstein and Mary Magdalene. Mmm, heaven.
Of course, true hippie values mean you’re not really supposed to care about or attach to any of this, you don’t give a damn for the hollow ego stroke of being right all along, for slapping the culture upside the head and saying, See? Do you see? It was never about the long hair and the folk music and Woodstock and taking so much acid you see Jesus and Shiva and Buddha tongue kissing in a hammock on the Dog Star, nimrods.
It was, always and forever, about connectedness. It was about how we are all in this together. It was about resisting the status quo and fighting tyrannical corporate/political power and it was about opening your consciousness and seeing new possibilities of how we can all live with something resembling actual respect for the planet, for alternative cultures, for each other. You know, all that typical hippie crap no one believes in anymore.
Right?
Thoughts for the author? E-mail him. Mark Morford’s Notes & Errata column appears every Wednesday and Friday on SFGate and in the Datebook section of the San Francisco Chronicle.
Well, another fantastic road trip is in the books! Although the weather called for snow on show day (and for days ahead) we lit outa Tahoe in a sunshiney daydream and took a short side trip to see our new granddaughter (yep, I am a grandpa now) in Placerville and then on our way nonstop to see Phil & Friends at the Mardi Gras Ball at the Bill Graham Civic in San Francisco.
We got to our motel in Berkeley (same one as last show at the Greek. even the same room) with 90 minutes to spare to get downtown. Rolled into the civic and got parked whithout a hitch (except the $12 fee) and got treated super well by the staff at the show, being disabled got us great seats on the balcony so we were able to catch all the excitement unobstructed.
For most of the shows we have attended in the last couple of years, it has been pretty much shoot from the hip aand usually by showtime funds are running low, well this time I planned ahead so's we had plenty of duckets to spend, and good thing we did, it cost us $20 for 2 domestic Miller beers (24oz.) to wash down our shrooms.
Just as I started coming on Dumpstaphunk opened the show, and damn were they smokin hot, they tore the roof off, if I was Phil, I wouldn't wan't to follow these guy's too often, Ivan Neville has quite a crew put together, and it just jumped with Louisiana soul.
Give San Franciscans a reason to dress up in costumes and the will not disappoint you, there were costumes of all sorts and during Phils break there was a contest for best costumes and was won by a giant blue bear!
Phil opened the show with a Jackie Greene fronted One More Saturday Night, and on with the show! Set One: (1 Hour 18 Mins. 9:21pm - 10:39pm)
One More Saturday Night Brown Eyed Women Pride Of Cucamonga Cold Black Devil > Golden Road To Unlimited Devotion > In The Midnight Hour* Viola Lee Blues > Caution > Viola Lee Blues
Phil: "More music and special treats on the way!"
Costume Contest w/Phil as MC (11:07pm - 11:18pm) Won by The Dancing Bear!
Set Two: (2 Hours & 15 Mins. 11:34pm - 1:49AM)
Shakedown Street > Iko Iko > * (MARDI GRAS PARADE w/Floats, Dancers, Stilt walkers, Dragons, & Costume contest participants dancing in front of the stage) Truckin' > * Jack Straw St. Stephen > The Eleven > Unbroken Chain Fire On The Mountain > I Know You Rider Morning Dew > Uncle John's Band
E: (1:55AM to 2:08AM) Phil w/Family member of Jeff Setzekorn (who died, but saved 4 lives) doing the Organ Donor Rap Box of Rain
* First time played (with this lineup) With Ivan Neville on Keyboards & Vocals
It was one hell of a show! And my only criticism was, OK Jackie is the front man, but he spends too much energy trying to outplay Larry Campbell instead of playing rhythm. And I wondered after a whole tour why he still needs to use charts to play? I usually don't criticise so these are merely observations and didn't affect our enjoyment at all, Rubi loves Jackie Greene and has nothing bad to say about him.. And even though it was dumping rain in the city and we had to drive through a whiteout to get home, nasty blizzards again, we made it safe and sound by 6 o'clock Sunday night.
If you went to this show and didn't have a great time something is wrong with you! We go to see our friend Melvin Seals next weekend can't wait for that one! And Jackie Greene is doing a show here in South Lake on Feb 17 and you can bet we will be there, (I work it that night for Renegade Productions anyway).
Well, another for the books, and a pair of happy hippie deadheads waiting for the next show...
Tomorrow - Comedy Club Fundraiser NATIONAL ACTION ALERT - Urge your U.S. Senators to Support Research: The federal government has created a gridlock by refusing to allow scientists to conduct medical research using non-governmental cannabis. But the FDA and DEA also claim there is not enough research on the medicinal value of marijuana. This hypocrisy and gridlock must end now! Congress must force the DEA to end the gridlock and allow scientists to conduct the necessary research on medical cannabis. What You Can Do: Call both of your U.S. Senators today! Ask them to sign the Kennedy/Kerry letter to acting DEA Administrator Michele Leonhart. Find out more at: http://www.safeacce ssnow.org/ article.php? id=5366
Tomorrow - Comedy Club Fundraiser for River City Patient Center: Please join us on Wednesday night for a Cannabis Comedy Festival to support the River City Patient Center! Hosted by Ngaio Bealum with guest entertainment from LA and The Bay Area! Also meet special guests Jack Herrer, Eddie Lepp and many more! Plus special guest music from Sacramento's own Selecta Lue, playing Reggae. The fundraiser will be this Wednesday night (1/16) at 8:00 PM, at the Punch Line Comedy Club in Sacramento (Howe Bout Arden Center), 2100 Arden Way. Order tickets online at: http://www.livenati on.com/artist/ getArtist/ artistId/ 23918
PLUS, don't miss the Super Bonus Crazy Raffle full of sick and twisted prizes! Smoking pieces, massages, autographed historical memorabila, books, all 3 Cannabibles, joint rolling hand book, a special patient prize pack, spiritual reading plus sooooooo much more! . All procedes from event will benefit The River City Patient Center.
California State Senator Carole Migden Takes a Stand for Safe Access: January 11 2008 - This week, State Senator Carole Migden introduced a resolution in the California Senate calling on the federal government to end its attacks on patients and providers in California and end the DEA raids. This is a huge victory for patients, providers, supporters, and activists in the medical marijuana movement. Senator Migden's statement comes as a response to the DEA's recent escalation of tactics against medical cannabis providers by targeting innocent third-party landlords, threatening to prosecute them and seize their property for renting to collectives. The resolution introduced yesterday makes a clear and strong statement about the DEA's actions in California, saying:
"Resolved by the Senate and the Assembly of the State of California, jointly, That the Legislature respectfully memorializes the Congress and President of the United States to enact legislation to require the Drug Enforcement Agency and all other federal agencies and departments to respect the compassionate use laws of states, including returning any assets seized from medical marijuana dispensaries and collectives to the states in which they are located…"
Tonight: Sacramento ASA Meeting: Join Sacramento ASA to prepare for 2008 campaigns including coalition outreach, ID card program, and national campaigns. When: Tuesday 1/15 at 7:00pm; Where: Crusaders Hall, 320 Harris Ave. Suite H in Sacramento. For more information, contact Lanette: cannacare@earthlink .net
Colorado Chapter Meeting: January 21: The CO. North Denver Medical Marijuana Discussion is every 3rd Monday, at the Front Range Community College LIBRARY, 3705 W 112th Ave Westminster, CO80031- 2140, Room L211, from 7pm to 9pm. For more information contact Tim Tipton at (303) 438-7221 or email him at TTipper39@hotmail. com or join the Meetup: http://medmarijuana .meetup.com/ 119/
AAMC Meeting: January 26: The El Dorado County American Alliance for Medical Cannabis meets on the fourth Saturday of each month from 2:15pm until 4:20pm, at the Garden Valley Grange, 4940 Marshall Road, Garden Valley, California. For more information visit: http://www.eldorado countyaamc. com/
National Compassionate Coalition Meeting: January 29: Please join us for our first meeting of 2008 as we discuss national, state, and local patients' rights issues. As always, new and returning members are invited to join the fun, have some food, and volunteer for upcoming events. When: Tuesday, December 18th, at 7:00PM. Where: Crusader Hall, 320 Harris Avenue, Suite H, Sacramento, CA. For more information contact info@CompassionateC oalition. org or (916) 709-2483.
NEW! - COLORADO SPRINGS CARES MMJ Discussion Group: January 29: Please join patients and caregivers at the first meeting of the Colorado Springs discussion group. This group will meet on every fourth Tuesday of the month from 7-9 p.m. at the Penrose Public Library Meeting Room, 20 N Cascade Ave, Colorado Springs, CO 80903. For more information contact: commjexpert@ gmail.com
Fry/Schafer Sentencing Postponed: Dear Friends, Once again, the government has postponed Dr. Mollie Fry and Dale Schafer's sentencing hearing until sometime in late February. I expect to have a date within the next week and will alert you all again at that time. Please help me post this notice of continuation so that supporters DON'T plan to show up or rally on Jan. 28th. These continue to be extremely trying times for the entire Fry/Schafer family and your support is greatly appreciated! !! I hope to have some additional info to share in the very near future regarding the appeal we will file in the 9th circuit once we've settled the sentencing issues. For more updates go to: http://www.docfry. com
-Thank You All and I hope this year is better for all of us! LOVE from COOL, Bobby Eisenberg, Fry/Schafer Defense Committee. ************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ********* ****** Want to get a text-message on your cell phone when a local raid is happening? -Then join the Sacramento Emergency Response Text-Message list! We're looking for patients and supporters to sign up for this service and show up to protest when a raid happens. Please help defend our local dispensaries and patients from DEA persecution. Sign up here: http://www.compassi onatecoalition. org/erlist
The Compassionate Coalition is an all-volunteer, non-profit, educational organization. We work to defend the rights of medical marijuana patients and care providers, and your support enables our work to continue. Please consider making a donation today: http://www.compassi onatecoalition. org/donate
Thank you for helping to defend patients' rights!
Nathan Sands Communications Director, Sacramento Chapter Representative The Compassionate Coalition 1500 Oliver Road, Ste-K, P.M.B. 248 Fairfield, CA 94533 www.CompassionateCo alition.org Email: nathan@Compassionat eCoalition. org Phone: (916) 709-2483
Highway patrol stop leads to large pot growing operation, Tahoe arrest
A 32-year-old South Lake Tahoe man was arrested late Friday night following a traffic stop which led to a search warrant of the man's home and the discovery of dozens of marijuana plants, authorities said this morning.
The man, whose name has not been released because of the multijurisdictional nature of the investigation, was arrested on suspicion of cultivation and possession of marijuana for sales, according to a California Highway Patrol officer.
The arrest was made after seven marijuana plants were discovered in the back of the man's vehicle when a CHP officer stopped the vehicle for a registration violation, the officer said.
With the assistance of officers from the South Lake Tahoe Police Department, a search warrant was written and the subject's house was raided, the officer said.
Through the house raid an additional 108 marijuana plants were located, the officer said.
The man was booked into El Dorado County Jail on suspicion of cultivation of marijuana and possession of marijuana for sales. Bail was set at $10,000. No street value of the marijuana seized has been determined.
May Saint Dilbert guide you through the hypnocracys of life as we know it!
From the opening notes of Come Together > Dark Star with Bobby Weir,Molo,and Phil, I knew we were in for a special treat. And it truly met all of our expectations, it was such a night (and morning)
All in all it was one of the most fantastic shows I have attended in a very very long time, and I have been going to shows since I was a pup of 13, I am so proud to say I have turned my wife into a true deadhead, who enjoys them as much as I do, and I know,
grateful
