Well thats why you should ask ME?
I do know Jack Shit and I can help you…. problems with love, money, style? Need to hear a cool new band, want your teenager to behave, think you need to trim your pubes but dont know how? I can help, I am that goddamn smart.
Submit all you questions to me here and I promise to respond. Ask in the comment line, you’ll get your answer, like it or not.
actual show- pulled from fansite
In May of 1995 the Grateful Dead played their last show in Las Vegas, Nevada. Four months later Jerry Garcia would die of a suspected cocaine-induced heart attack. Though the legacy echoes on, the death of Jerry Garcia was essentially the coffin nail to one of the greatest phenomenon of modern human history. Quite literally this tiny handful of hippie musicians tapped into an energy unrivaled and spurned a migration only comparable to the wildebeest herds of the Serengeti; this isn’t spinnerhead bullshit, the numbers are simply that large. Listen, you don’t have to like the Dead, you don’t have to get the Dead but despite your personal visions of the cosmic, everyone should respect the Grateful Dead. They earned it.
Im not going to lie, I’ve never been a huge fan of the music, I didn’t then nor do I now listen to it often. Its cool, it fine, I get it, its good in doses but I cant recite lyrics and frankly it starts to sound very much the same after awhile. However, I do admire what they created and much of what their message represented. Like any religion, political movement, or populist wave mostly it’s been bastardized, misunderstood, manipulated by is own selfish legion and brought to market by the Lords of Commerce. But what they came to represent was bigger than music, lifestyle, philosophy or any of the people involved. I have no intentions of trying to describe that force, a thousand books have already been dedicated, each both wrong and right. Its like trying to describe the epiphany of god or an hallucinogenic experience…..its private to each individual and unknowable to the masses. This is merely my own tale of a day spent with the Dead where I experienced both the horrific and the sublime in the course of an afternoon, each element utterly crucial to the other.
Heaven, Hell and the Dead
Old friends had come to town for the show, crashing on available floor space in my apartment. We partied it up good, had fun, cruised the Strip, generally played tourist. The next day was the show, they planned to go out early and enjoy the carnival that is the parking lot experience but I had to work. I would drudge through my day fixing rich peoples broken houses then catch up to them at the show. Mind you this was before everyone had a cell phone, there would be fifty thousand spaced out loonies to sift through before I found my specific ones. It would not be easy but I was indeed up for the challenge.
I rolled up late in my old Buick, had to park miles away. I got as high as humanly possible, grabbed my ticket and what little spending money I could muster and started the long march. Walking through row after row of busted Winnebago and rusted wagon, seeing the remnants of grand parties recently abandon I was pretty jealous I had missed the festivities. Seasoned Deadheads are a very tuned in lot, perceptive beyond the everyday, an older hippie couple chilling and BBQing greeted me as I drew near.
“Had to work, huh. Well, don’t be bummed young man, there is plenty of party left inside,” says the random stranger from forty feet away. His lady, clearly once quite stunning, also smiled at me.
“Here kid, have a pull off this, it’ll help that smile,” as she handed me a clown face balloon. Being raised never to offend, also being one never to turn down free drugs I happily accepted, emptied my lungs and breathed deep…….WOWZA. I thanked and slapped five, off I floated toward the gates. The din grew louder as I approached. It was mostly empty outside the arena, with only a few ragtag groups milling about. Walking around the mezzanine the crowd grew steadily thicker as did the smell of sandalwood, beer, frankincense, sand, sweat and mystery like some long lost post card from Persia. I still hadn’t seen the stadium floor but it smelled like when the magic of valkyrie carpets and the cloaked eyes of beauty enchanted the world with visions of a Middle East still romantic, still exotic and still something worth saving.
Dirty patch-work skirts and dreadlocks abounding, tribal hoops and sandals with tire soles; baggy jeans, short shorts, bikini tops, peasant dresses and linen, but also belted Dockers and Tommy Bahama, Wranglers and boots, Dickies, tuxedos, jester suits, caveman costumes complete to the club— old, young, rich, poor, black, Indian, Mexican, —the Dead draws them all. If you don’t know, have never been to a show one of the absolute keys you must realize is that the crowd at a Dead show is utterly and completely diverse. Though certainly there are plenty of the stereotypical, patchouli smelling hippies there are also buttoned down stock brokers, old black women, young frat boys, working men, hard core bikers, retirees in hotrod wheelchairs towing oxygen, babies in hand-knit slings, politicians, Jew lawyers, Korean cooks, welders, civil engineers, janitors and typists, executives sharing a joint with maids, dealers, tricks and pimps, and of course cops………. I don’t mean the ones cursed with security duty, those officers are needed. I mean the ones trapped in their obvious moustaches; sentenced to be those sorry fuckin storm-troopers assigned to blend in by wearing their satin team jackets in 100 heat……..Good luck with that ….. good luck indeed.
There were some where around fifty thousand impaired people in that arena. I had to find four.
So, I got a beer.
My cool ass, old German great-grandma knew a thing or two about hard work, and what she imparted to me was…..AVOID IT! That instead of frettin over your coffee all morning, just sit down, chew an oatmeal cookie and the coffee will likely boil perfectly fine on its own.
Viola, (that’s my great grandma) was a pretty smart old lady.
So instead of trying to filter through tens of thousands mingling bodies for my friends and my hits of waiting acid, I just found a spot and chilled. I was content to enjoy the movable feast, to steal from Henry Miller, of interesting and entertaining people endlessly milling past. A joint passed by, so with a fresh buzz, a cool brew and a stadium full of new friends I was clam happy.
Music started, it was band pretty obsure outside of a niche mountain bar scene based in Colorado, but their hybrid rock blend of horn and violin, guitar and the singers unique voice was bright, positive, groovy and danceable. Soon crowd was up and shaking ass, and I was too. Good music, good buzz, and dancing in unison with forty thousand smiling people is a happy spot to be in. I remember thinking, that this band would be really big someday— that obscure little band turned out to be the Dave Matthews Band. The Dead and that tour essentially launched them into your car radio.
Mid booty shaking groove, someone tapped me on the shoulder, this time it wasn’t another doobie passing freely by, it was my gang. Great Grandma had it right, the coffee usually boils itself.
My crew had been cruising all day, playing their part in the wacky fantastic, they had been fully engaged for hours, pupils and smiles tell no lies. Those kids were tripping and I was jealously behind.
“Its been hard but we’ve been saving half our tabs till we found you, this is perfect the Dead will play in about forty five minutes,” said Jore. Just about right for the LSD to peak. Out came the Homer Simpson acid, a full dose for me, second half for the gang, long with it came a fresh pipe to bridge the gap and a full beer for fuel. It burns a lot of calories to dance your fucking ass off for 3 or 4 hours.
So we danced, and laughed, made friends, shared the intertwined mind. It was one of the best times of my life. I felt true, deep, joy that is very, very difficult to imagine if you’ve never felt that connection. I wont try to describe the hallucinogenic experience— you just have to have it to know, and I very sincerely believe everyone should, at least once. There is a reason that virtually every tribal culture the world over has some form of vision quest as an adolescent right of passage; by pushing your mind through that ethereal keyhole you became privy to knowledge not typically sold off the shelf.
This is no sales pitch, doing acid isn’t a joke, you better strap the fuck up because a taste of the universal mind can be a whale, that little canteen sip can turnout to be a tidal wave, and it can drown you just the same. It can nourish your cerebral garden or wash you to sea……. it depends 110% on YOU. Which is, of course, the lesson, the gift or curse LSD holds. You learn something about your self that will never, ever leave you. It is glimpse of your own soul, I bullshit you not.
That is exactly what happened nearby. The joyous mood disintegrated in waves, literally. A darkness hit the crowd like a wind, people soon started to scramble away as if from an unseen inferno. A physical hole developed in the crowd, people were pushing, struggling to be rid of that horrible feeling inside. The drugs had made us all conduit for raw emotion, what had been glee, was replaced with dread. It like a cloud over the sun. Soon the situation became clear, standing in the center of the growing circle was a woman loosing her mind.
A middle-aged Asian woman, skinny and totally naked was overdosing. As she cycled between hysteric shrieking, gibberish and gibberish in Chinese you could see a large green wad of partially melted capsules still on her tongue. She tore her own skin , would then flop to the ground start masturbating furiously, then just as quick hop back up to charge toward the nearest person pleading for help, then back to yelling, flopping, tearing at her flesh. She was alternating in and out of sanity. This unknown woman was dying and living again in fleeting patches right before us. Her eyes were solid black pupils. Her gaunt body was skeletal and ugly locked in clinching spasms. It was like the entire force of the Universe was trying to push itself out through her pinhole soul, like she was the hood ornament on the sum of all galaxies and the force as just to great. It was eating her alive a cell and a thought at a time. The whole crowd was witnessing a march into madness. The blackness of it like pins in our minds…… it was ghastly, easily the most hideous event Ive ever witnessed.
The paramedics arrived in only a minute or two, though to those watching it seemed like hours. She was triaged and whisked off, to his day I don’t know if she lived, died or was forever lost to insanity.
A collective sign of relief filtered through the crowd, it was like a sliver had been removed from our brains, but all was not well. People were huddled together crying, heads were buried in shoulders, a rift had shattered the joy of the space. Uncertainly and sadness itched on the skin. You could almost see it spreading, a disease of sorrow until very faintly music could be heard. A lone twinkling of sound trickling to our collective ears. 
Completely unnoticed Jerry Garcia had walked out on stage alone with an acoustic guitar. I don’t know if the band had been told of the OD event or if his wizardly senses were just attuned after decades of uniting with crowd after crowd. He didn’t say a word, just played lullaby soft. The music did his talking, at first it said, “I know, I know”, on he played, soon the tune changed to repeat, “its ok, we’ll be fine, we are together, we are here, we are with you”. The people could hear the message, I heard the message. It was combating the pain, washing the darkness way, the tears started to dry. The desperate clutches became hugs, the anguish eased into bereavement fading further into remembrance. On and on that old hippie played like a piper of the light leading his people back from night and into the shining day.
After a while the other band members came back on stage but didn’t play, they just sat listening to the escalating dirge, the stadium was silent to the whisper. Only that phoenix guitar could be heard, both laughing and crying, knowing each person, kissing every cheek, rubbing every shoulder, squeezing ever hand, repairing fifty thousand minds.
Suddenly the band crashed in, the shock of sound startling at first but it was traditional Grateful Dead damn funky jam, the sadness was slain! The Happy was back undefeatable and proud. The crowd danced again, rescued from failure.
For hours the band played, the people shimmied and spun, laughing and tripping. Then at the end I experienced one of the best moments of my life.
The music had ended but someone started to beat drum, a big, flat natural skin drum and as the people filed toward the exits they all started to join in unison. Whether it be a stomp on the stairs, a hand tapping on a steel rail, claps, fingers on the backs of the seats or simple a slap on the thigh EVERYONE was in perfect rhythm, perfect harmony. No commands given, not directed or instructed, it just happened. Fifty thousand strangers able to blend together perfectly synchronized without a single word of communication. We felt like one, we were unified, we were powerful. Smiles and waves passed across the stadium seeming no further than feet, we were whole together and anything seemed possible.
A measure of the human potential when petty disagreements are set aside and a little joy is allowed to shine, or at least proof some booze, weed and good tunes is a pretty damn fine time.
This took place a long, long time ago. I was about seven and I had a shit fit, at least that’s what my Dad, called it. A fucking bad day is what I called it.
I was a farm boy. I grew up working, that’s why my parents had me; to do shit. After marriage they waited seven years, till the chores piled up, before Ma popped me in the oven. There was a plan, believe me. I was no accident of passion; no awkward backseat hotshot. It wasn’t because my old man was too quick to pull out. I just wish I could use that same utilitarian excuse, I’m just a lightning bolt.
Anyway, it was hay season, late summer and hot. August soil thin as dirty flour stuck in every pore. The dry scratch of the dusty air was amplified by wheat chaf, it made you itch on the inside. There was no shade in sight. Though only in early elementary I had roll to play, I was driving. I would put our pick-up truck in first gear, pop the clutch and start idling down the field. The men would then walk beside, loading straw bales as we went. Bale after bale, hour after hour we worked. My dad and uncle throwing sixty pound bundles of dead grain up to my Grampa, in the bed of the vehicle, stacking the cubes; doing the working man’s version of Tetris.
YOU HAVE HEARD THE TERM – BUM FUCK
Well, we were somewhere past that. Literally, we were in the middle of nowhere; 25 miles from a town, six miles from the nearest random ranch house. We had exactly what we brought with us, nothing more; no cell phones, no 7-11 down the block, no AAA with a shiny blue and yellow tow truck to roll up and save the day. We were goddamn plainsman, the stuff Marlboro commercials are made of. In Webster’s under ‘rugged individualists’ you’d see a picture of my walrus looking Uncle Jim heaving a bale while my little, toe-head blonde self was peek-a-booing over the steering wheel. We are working men and at seven I was a valuable member of the team. Pretty big deal for a boy.
CLIMATE CHANGE OCCURS IN SECONDS
I didn’t start the day sick, but something happened. Suddenly, I had to poop. Not your standard civilian “gee, I think I need to go”, I had to shit! Right then, it was not an option, it was happening. Let me be clear, bodily functions out-of-doors is a non-issue for me but I was panicked and embarrassed, basically horrified. It wasn’t sanitation, it was pride. To be a boy included and needed by men, your own family is a badass feeling for a kid. The last thing I wanted to do was crap myself when hanging with the dudes.
I stopped the pickup, yelled for my dad. He ushered me to the front of the pickup, and scrambled for toilet paper, napkins, rags whatever….
I tore at my pants but there was no time, I tried to lean back but my diarrhea had charted a path with extreme velocity. Foul, acid gravy filled my undies and pants bundled around my ankles, soaked into my socks and shoes. It dripped down my skinny, pale legs like caustic egg yolk. It was a certifiable, unabashed fucking MESS!
There was no saving the cloths. Had they been weaved from the golden fleece, stitched with the hair of angels and buttoned with diamonds those pants would have been cast to wilds.
“Take’em off! You can wrap up in one of my flannel shirts,” said my truly sympathetic father. My uncle and my Grampa were keeping their respective distances at the back of the truck. I peeled off the shit covered garments, shoes, socks and all; everything but a ragged t-shirt. I was buck naked below the waist, narrow white ass and pinky dick in the wind. The toilet paper was sticking to my legs as the hot, wind dried the shit like yellow lava flow. I was tearful and shamed, stomach aching with a hot coal for a hole; I consider this a bit of a low point.
THEN THE HORSEFLIES ARRIVED
This was cow country, when fresh shit hits the wind armadas of insects take flight. Primarily this means large, ugly, wicked creatures called we called “horseflies”. They bite with malice leaving heavy welts that itch for days. They swarm to fresh poop intent to lay their demon eggs. Not only did I have feces splattered around me in the field dirt but it was still coating my naked legs.
Things went very wrong from here……… tragically, epically fucking wrong. The first few flies were hardly noticed, I was trying to collect myself, clean myself and roust the courage to wear my fathers flannel shirt like a kilt. I causally brushed away those early insect argonauts, but soon, one was four and then four was twelve. Exponentially they came. I started to slap and swat, they were landing all over my legs, flying between them, buzzing my groin.
By now I had forgotten all about cleaning myself, though I still had dirty ‘TP’ clenched in my hands like sticky, brass-knuckles. I was under goddamn attack. The hoard becoming a combatable symbol of all my anguish, fueled by frustration and embarrassment I actively was now trying to fight them.
Emotionally it made sense, defy and attack your foul antagonist, realistically not so much. Horseflies are not hive-minded, don’t attack with cohesive fury like bees. That doesn’t mean they aren’t aggressive and defensive, the more I smacked and clubbed at them the greater their tempest grew. Soon this was a fight to the death, to HELL we would clamber before I bowed to them. I was killing and being bitten with earnest. I had long abandoned the puffs of toilet paper, within minutes into this mêlée I was cycloning my own shit soaked tight-whitey’s like a naked ninja with soggy num-chucks. As I spun and slapped and twirled, angry flies bombarded me. It was like a battle scene from Star Wars but instead of X-Wings and cheesy pink and green laser gunplay it was arcs of splattering diarrhea and tears exploding against entomological battalions, fenders, face and windshield. It was war, it was raw and it was motherfucking ON!
SEPARATE WORLDS COLLIDE
The men had cracked open their coolers, trying to enjoy a respite while nobly offering me some privacy. As grown men, they had all been in a bad spot before and they were my family, they knew not to baby me. The most ardent way to help was to leave me the fuck alone. There was over a ton of straw and the eighteen feet of loaded truck between them and I. Innocent they were to the battle that raged mere yards from them. They were not at fault. They were in perfect order but eventually a parent senses the distress of his offspring.
“Hey, what the hell is taking so long? You ok up there?” yelled my father, Shasta soda in hand.
OK, this is blogging so rules of decent literature be damned. I’m freely disregarding tense, perspective, and narration…………god shines on the liberty of complimentary self publication. Love ya, but fuck off Mr. Pfister(my junior English teacher), proper grammar has no place in the modern vernacular. Anyway……so we all know that in front of the truck, Im locked in an onslaught against turd hungry, vampire bugs, Im naked, seriously pissed and falling further behind with each adrenaline drunk, home run swing I take versus a more nimble opponent.
Henceforth I want you to put yourself in the place of any of those fellas; my family of legit farmers, men with calluses and enough strength in their hands to choke a bear. You’ve just spent the morning huckin’ bales, sweating, panting and working heavy, then your trophy boy has explosive nausea. Out of normal human consideration you tend to you own. Then the tipping point reveals itself.
“Hey, what the hell is taking so long? You ok up there?”
“Flies!” I shriek! Hate, wrath and pain, shame and a champion’s will to fight like mercury on my voice.
It was only the length of a truck. The men dropped, boots to the dirt, each hearing the genuine distress in my voice. Had there been insurgent Vikings, axes would have been buried in brain and sinew, blood and men would have fallen!
Instead of conflict, when those men peeled around the corners of that old, gray Chevy, they were treated to a seriously frenzied child, flipping liquid shit like he was channeling Jackson Pollock.
At that point, my Uncle Jim who looked like a forty year old, sandy blonde version of Wilford Brimley took a poop slap to the moustache and cheek and went down; hysteric laughter rendering him utterly useless. Laughter morphing him into a perma-grin epileptic trapped in seizure. My Grampa Nic, homestead raised and quietly stoic, witness to many barnyard battles between frontier hog and chicken and child knew to pull up short but he cackled stupidly under is white, straw cowboy hat. I can honestly say that Ive never known, or even heard of my Grampa Nic losing control.
Im not talking about too many margaritas then leaving silly, tire tracks in the snow kind of lost control. He laughed spine deep, laughed harder and harder as he absorbed the tableau until he was swept away by the fits, saliva leaked from his mouth, tears rolling down his red face. It was one of those attacks of laughter that leaves your stomach muscles sore for days.
My Dad is my Dad, without hesitation he waded into the fray. He was trying with fervor to maintain control, to take official command of the situation but it was no use. His laughter came in snorts and coughs.
“Goddamn boy, stop swinging your shorts,” he pleaded ducking and juking forward like a boxer, trying in vain to dodge the hurricane of flying crud. He had to literally disarm me like a policeman, knocking the underwear out of my hand. Weaponless he scooped my up and hauled me out of the fire fight. Weakened by amusement it was more drag than carry. He deposited me on the tailgate.
Snapped free of my struggle, I basically wilted. I cried. Slowly the guys collected themselves and all pitched in to help. Grampa grabbed a semi-clean rag and his thermos, the luke-warm coffee worked great to clean my legs. Soon I was fully kilted in a work shirt and heading for home. Nothing like a crazed shit fit from your wheelman to end a work day.
Bouts of random chuckling spouted up from them all was we motored for home and the retelling to my astounded grandmother drew forth another round of full fledged tears. Being of the superior sex she didn’t think it was nearly as funny, she ushered me inside to shower and call my mom.
To this day the “SHIT FIT” is a family classic.
We were broke, bored and fifteen. It was the final weekend of a six month long wrestling season, by then we were beyond burnt, body and mind. As a finale to our self-induce torture we would be trapped either on a greyhound bus, a sporting arena, or a motel room for five straight days; who could be surprised this story ultimately can be reduced to a delicate interplay of fire and the groin.
High school freshman often struggle to qualify for the state wrestling tournament, competition can be fierce, but in 1988 four gangly frosh boys from the thriving metropolis of Cut Bank, Montana made the cut.
I haven’t asked any of these peoples permission to use their name, frankly I don’t give a shit but just to be nice I’ll use nicknames henceforth. A motley lot we made; I was 6’2” but competing in the 140lb weight class. I had a big ass nose and blonde hair. I looked like an anorexic Big Bird stalking the mat in my gold singlet. Inversely, “Binko” was a squatty, little bastard about as wide as he was tall, we’ll get to know Bink soon enough. My other teammates were “Jar” and “DP”: DP was the cute, quiet one with exactly the kind of boyish mischief in his smile that all the cheerleaders liked. I’m pretty sure he got laid early and a lot, but no one would’ve known which is of course why it happened. Jar was sly and tough with a hint of natural meanness, the kind that made him a true master at fucking with people. He wasn’t as much a smartass as a craftsman. I always admired that about Jar.
It was the last trip of the season but we loaded the bus as always, sharply adorned in acid wash jeans and high top Nikes. We jockeyed for seats nearest the back, nearest the elders holding court upon their bench-seat dais. The doors closed and away we rolled, Captain Ron our steadfast driver and my father at the helm. It was a six hour ride to Billings, Montana.
The Metra Arena, traditional home to the Montana All-Class State Wrestling Tournament, is your standard steel and concrete, multi-use expo found generically across city and college campus nationwide. Seating about twenty thousand, it could even be considered modest against its NCAA and NBA peers; but to me, to us, four hill-billy, farm boys from Cut Bank, Montana it might as well have been Madison Square Garden, Yankee Stadium… The Coliseum even, complete with warrior ghosts still crossing blood covered swords to the cacophony of gore thirsty crowds hysteric to the rafters.
Hey, what can I say, we were what we were, small town kids, shit-heal farm boys …we had one stop light in our town, a six lane street was frightful urban labyrinth, back then we drove 125 miles to eat at McDonalds. That’s not a joke.
It really was no exaggeration to say, for us first-timers walking into the arena was just like the scene in Hoosiers when the team stares wide-eyed and star struck at their own state tournament venue.
The rest is a long ago blur….it was huge, chilly, impersonal rooms filled with nervous teenage boys, edgy giggles, hushed tones. The mechanized slap of jump-ropes piloted by experts, muffled and barely distinguishable squawks of a PA announcing weights and rooms and class, sudden booms of applause, deathly hushes of concern, this was the soundtrack to our next few days. Thinking back I can’t imagine the smell, the sick/sweet smell of the place, however unnoticed at the time.
Teenage boys stink, this I’ve come to know, but there it was amplified by a thousand bodies, by fear and sweat, dehydration, tears and joy, blood, glory and popcorn; all with the chemical honey undertone of vinyl rudder. Mat rubber and disinfectant, a smell unique to itself, a smell still in my dreams. Goddamn, I can imagine it must have taken weeks, or a rodeo, to clear the stank from that arena after an all-class State Wrestling tourney.
I must digress. In case you don’t know the glamorous protocols of high school wrestling. In such a competition each contestant is allotted two loses. The weakest qualifiers get the honor of being matched against the top seeds in the first round. The four of us plebes certainly had that honor. If you’re defeated in the first match its common to grapple in another match quickly; which means that if you get your ass kicked again it’s over! Done! You have just spent six hours on a bus, starved for weeks, trained for months, missed parties, missed dates, all to be rewarded with another 60 hrs spent in an approximated gym. Well, really its more like this: on a bus to a motel, motel to bus, bus to arena, arena to bus to motel…… bus, arena, motel……bus, arena, motel…. It’s like a pre-pubescent Groundhog Day…its life stuck on repeat. So that, fair reader, is exactly how and why Binko decided to light his own nuts on fire!!! Boredom! Idle hands doing the devils work.
YEP, you read that correctly, Winko, the clown prince of the freshman four decided to apply accelerant and flame to his own testicles. I witnessed it, this is absolutely true. Now, let’s start back at the beginning.
We were broke, bored and fifteen. We couldn’t roam the hotel, not with Coach V patrolling the halls, we’d been warned already. None of us had learned to drink, not yet. Besides, smuggling booze required friends on the outside, an entourage. An entourage required being cool, we were not cool. We had mullets.
It was a Super Eight, not the Holiday Inn, nothing but network TV. There was not even a chance to see boobs on Cinemax. Cards were dull, untrue stories of women ravaged already retread. We were stir-crazy until a discovery was made; a lighter. Forward we crept, like cavemen to the primordial flame, and, of course you know the first question uttered,
“Who has to fart?”
The nondescript room then immediately turned into a yoga studio of contorted teenagers squatting and bending, tucking and rolling all in an attempt to manifest a balloon of belly gas. Alas, after months of cutting weight, of reduced calories no one had gas. No amount of grunting and squeezing could yield a plume of methane. We had a lighter but nothing to light.
Brutal was our rollercoaster of emotion.
Sarcastically someone, Jar if I had to guess, suggested that Bink should light his nuts on fire…….funny, till he called the bluff , pushed down his elastic band and put the little orange flame to the top of his curly pubes. It crackled and snapped like a mini campfire complete with a wee curl of foul smelling smoke.
We all laughed, it was fucking funny. It stunk so bad, like some crazy mix of farm animal, barbershop and spent firepit. This, of course, just made it all the more comedic. I mean, HE BURNED HIS NUT HAIR. How do you not laugh at that, especially when you’re already giddy with boredom? Charged by the silly energy, the spotlight of attention, famous words were then uttered,
“Bink knows!” That is all he said, “Bink knows” and into to the bathroom he vanished. Please keep in mind that this was 1988 so it should be no shock that he reappeared with a shiny blue can of Aqua-Net Hairspray. He wore a madman grin. While holding a white bath towel he laid out his plan.
The plan was logic based, no doubt. If a small spark of burning pubic hair was funny then if you increase the flame you increase the humor. It was exponential.
Down again went the elastic band on his sweatpants but new to the equation was the light spritzing of cheap hairspray. A snap of the thumb brought the lighter to life, the orange flame linked with misting of spray on hair and a pretty blue flame danced to life from the top of Binko’s pube thatch……. We cackled.
Listen, it was completely stupid, and perfectly beautiful. Beside the immediate and visual comedy in seeing a propane blue flame leaping from your buddy’s nuts there is also the less obvious, cerebral element of taboo, of carnival bizarre, of freak show wonderlust. He was lighting his OWN nuts on fire, ON purpose. This is a concept deeply entertaining; this gets belly deep guffaws from a troop of shivering, flint age, Neanderthal and from non-fat, venti frappaccino drinking yuppie commuters alike. This is rich to the core of humanity. Don’t act like it’s beneath you. If you had been in that room you’d be laughing, don’t think you wouldn’t.
The first attempt with hairspray produced a small blaze leaping to approximately Binko’s belly button. He immediately tamped it out with the waiting towel in his other hand. It was quick and clever and it did draw giggling applause from the group. Common sense would demand that if a spritz of Aqua-Net lead to six inches of burning humor then more spray meant more humor.
Bink tossed his towel and another to Jar and I.
“K, help me put it out!” he confidently delegated. ‘YEAH, Ok buddy! SUUUREE! No problem, WE got your back’! That was the unspoken sentiment that flashed through the room. His safety is our first priority….yeah right.
Down went his sweats till they are nearly to the knee in the back, his dink is like a coat hook snagging the front of the sweats so only the root of it and his entire patch of unkept pubic hair is visible. Bare-chested he glances to us all, a splinter of precaution in his eye. We leered back like rabid hyenas all nodding YES, YES, YES. Its FFFINNE said our eyes. Reassured Binko lets loose the Aqua-Net, the first time it was a quick squirt/squirt this time he held the button down; blatantly coating this hair, stomach and dick base. He sprayed and sprayed till there was clear fluid literally dripping from his entire groin ….. he was wet with hairspray. Another nervous glance, again we nodded GO! Then the flame sprung in his hand, inching toward his crotch it went.
He exploded unexpectedly fast. The flame reached the radiating fumes a fair distance from his body. It surprised us all. There was an audible pop of air as his entire body was completely engulfed in blue flame. He spun and thrashed like a movie stuntman, howling and coughing at once. His fire fighting support team was seized by spasms of laughter. Binko was alone and on fire.
We beat himself in the crotch like an ape gone mad. This just made it funnier; he was not only burning alive, he was punching himself in the nuts furiously trying to kill the flame. This pleas and grunts had also become simian-like shrieks as he swatted and spun and shook and danced with blue flames encapsulating the majority of his body core.
Even now typing this, thinking back over twenty years, I can’t help but fucking chuckle. Oh my god it was a funny site. The frantic flailing, the fire, the aurora of hair smoke swirling around him like a bad magician trick, the girly shrieks and moans. The other three of us convulsed with hysterical laughter. Quite a sight it was. It smelled like someone was burning a heap of dead dogs, totally putrid. Before we could realize it our laughter was nearly became retches due to the smell. Again, this just made it more hilarious and harder to stop laughing.
The flame quickly burned off the alcohol in the hairspray and essentially put itself out in a matter of seconds. He was not even slightly burned, modest damage at best. The aftermath, however, did reveal visible evidence making the episode impossible to hide. He had singed off is eyebrows, eyelashes. The entire front of his hair was nothing but crispy, brown stalks. When he touched it is crumbled like thousand year old parchment. Even his nose hair was brown and lost to the inferno. Bink’s face was a raw, sunburned pink and now almost completely hairless.
We, of course, had made room to room calls to tell the tale to other teammates but the entire team didn’t immediately know the story as we mounted the bus in the morning. Within minutes the coaches, my Dad and others were asking what the smell was, those that knew tried to capture our giggles in our hands and coats. The murmurs of complaint over the smell continued, Wink still smelled like barbequed horsehair. Finally the ever crotchety Coach V stood up and yelled,
“What the hell stinks?” and without even waiting for a response continued, “BINKOWITCHOVIAC” what the hell did you do this time? “ Since the cat was clearly out of the bag the whole bus erupted with laughter. Someone yelled for coach to inquire about the status of his testicles. Grumpy and impatient Coach V wasn’t up for quizzes; he stalked back to where Binko was sitting.
“Jesus boy, you smell like a goddamn scorched mule. What the hell happened?” It was a demand. I’m sure visions of charred walls, of a teeth grinding fire chief and ever mounting liability payments to Super 8 were beginning to boil beneath his trademark brown felt cowboy hat.
“I lit my balls on fire Coach,” replied Binko very matter-of-factly. The notoriously hotheaded Coach V simply starred, almost distantly reminiscent, then turned and walked back to the front of the bus without a word. Not much to say to a statement like that.
>>>>>>>> The End
If I was a conman I would sell you pearly things
Precise and comprised, words as lies
solid as bitten gold
Short bet, regret, love to tool my martyr
A bleak young sheep’s heart to barter
Black am I, black straight pin
and metal cold
Incomplete one town street, such a dirty
fucking hold
South Central Idaho
just some words I like, fleeting verse as I drove the the South Fork of the Payette, south central Idaho, ‘09
Rising buffalo backs or like the humps of great old bears the basalt rocks broke from the pale soil where erosion had mandated. Others, depending on forever continuing draw or ridge, windward or lee, appeared flat and sharp like the spines of paleo secrets yet to be revealed.
Excerpt from on-going geo-political debate with dear friend and mentor………
I don’t know Pops, I still think that Obama is the right guy for the times and that most of what you, and the rest of his conservative opposition really stand against isn’t him, even his ideals– but actually just the dickweed Democrats like Pelosi and Nevada’s own Harry Reid. Really, really, really what would be suddenly better, different if John McCain and that fucking retard Sarah Palin were in the White House……What really changes??
Im beginning to think Obama would be better suited to have a Republican controlled Congress, or a deadlocked balance even better. His own party is doing more to derail is overall agenda than anything. Certainly there is a backlash rising against him currently, mostly from within his own base but its “spoiled child syndrome” ……. (I have a whole other diatribe on that- FB post Russell Rowland)……
Both political are sides are utterly selfish and impractical, neither with a sincerity for improvement on mass, but really the whole Washington soap opera is only a distraction, it’s a dinosaur. Its missing the point…….
Lets be honest— we do need to establish some new policies, set a few new courses, shift some attitudes…..and I DON’T MEAN the USA, I MEAN the WORLD. The globe is facing ever mounting issues, its not a republican vs democrat debate, not conservative against liberal, not a white/black, west/east, Christian/muslim ……there are no longer sides, we are now dealing with HUMAN problems. Picking sides and in-fighting is no more than an ostrich solution…ALL sides are equally guilty and short sighted.
The problems each of us face-you-me-as well as those in Sudan, Modesto, Mumbai and Islamabad, the bedrock problems are ALL the same, we are all in the same boat, the world has become a very small, interconnected place. Until the human species decides to grow-up and quite acting like Earth is a daycare there really isn’t solution to be found.
So we’ve shifted enemies, Islam is the new Nazi…. We have new people to blame, new directions to point guns……. All the while no one addresses the root. We have to begin to think and act globally, all countries, all sects, all dumbass religion or sooner or later “the whole shithouse is going up in flames”……….. the time for petty grievances is past, wars over syntax, or to say who gets to name god, who’s game of dress-up is most correct are little more than the continuation of same tribalism that has fuelled conflict since we all had flat heads…….We have evolved in form but little in civilization
THAT is why OBAMA is the best man for the job, because he is helping to manifest a global table, even if he doesn’t have all the right answers and he doesn’t. The rest of the world wants to come sit down. He intrigues action, he embodies a call to motion. I single man, a single country even, CAN NOT fix terrorism, can not fix a truly global economy, can not fix a perilous environment, even healthcare is a worldwide problem because things like disease pandemics and cancer are linked to the economy via poverty and food source. Today’s leaders of the world, of all flavors, need to work in unison to hit “GO” on a new paradigm of thought. Obama’s brand of diplomacy, his insistence on sitting down and trying, of believing in something larger is infectious. Human civilization NEEDS to catch that disease; to START a process that will take generations to manifest……he is a figurehead of a new course, the world believes in him and that is the spout, he represents the first step in a long, long walk.
Lets not forget the president doesn’t make law, he isn’t the enemy, even at his most powerful he can only try and influence the agenda, it is NOT real till the House and Senate make it real. His job IS rhetoric, his job IS diplomacy, his job IS to chart direction for us as American citizens and for America as citizen of the world. The president is only the shiny red Cadillac leading the parade, Congress is the greasy mechanic shop that keeps things running, its them that need tools in hand to tighten bolts and oil the zerks which will keep our country healthy and humming. The SOLUTION is ALWAYS a shade of gray, it ALWAYS costs and it ALWAYS hurts someone somewhere, its impossible for either side to have it only their way. Until Washington AND the whole of the voting public come to turns with that, get over it petty antagonism and work together it will stay the same.
In-action, atrophy is stagnation and death, time moves inevitably, CHANGE is the only guarantee beside death. This is not our grandparents world, nor will it be ours tomorrow. We HAVE to think, live, act with flexibility and vision beyond what typically is yesterday’s opinion formed. This goes for each person, each country, each religion…….So I say again, That is why Obama is still the man! He is painting the words on the wall for the world to see, and THAT is enough.
Pickle Luedtke age 4
An Observation on Parenting-Fall 2007
Story Note: “Pickle” is my now 4 year old son; he was 2 at the time of this story. He’s already locally infamous and knows more people in our town than I do. Seriously, we call him the ‘Mayor” because everywhere we go random people that I’ve never met will say hello . Point is, his reputation precedes him. If you’re a parent you should feel my pain….Enjoy!~JLSo last night, 8:30ish, I get the P-Man out of the bath, get him dressed with diaper and flannel jimmies; his red fire truck separates with button-up shirt and elastic waistband pants. He wanders off to taunt and destroy something convenient, maybe jump on the sleeping dogs head, put his brother’s hat in the toilet, typical Pickle business. Meanwhile, Logan (7) is finishing up her shower, which she has recently begun to enjoy taking due to the lack of her naked brother and his incessant splashing, hitting, hair-pulling, and spitting. After a few minutes she comes out wrapped in towels head to toe, even her hair is all spun up looking like some skinny, white version of Erykah Badu.
She heads into her room to dress, which of course draws Pickle like a fat kid to cake. He is doing his typical best to make her laugh, to maim, to break her spirit-each and all at once. She finally manages to retrieve her underwear which he has stolen and thrown behind the xmas tree, yank back her sweat pants that he is biting, playing tug like a puppy and finishes dressing. She then proceeds to climb up into her “cave”. Her “cave” is nothing more than the top corner of the built-in shelves in her closet, the opening of the closet door creates a small overhang which she can wiggle into and read with a flashlight or sneak cookies….the key allure of her “cave” is, of course, the fact that her brother can’t climb up to assault her.
So while this mini-melodrama is unfolding in Logan’s room Im in the kitchen starting dishes. I can hear them but am only half listening; Im hearing them like a veteran stagehand of ‘Cats’ hears the third act of the 12437th performance.
Seconds pass, the monk like patience of Pickle begins to erode, he wants to play with his sister and she won’t climb down from her safe haven in the sky to amuse him. In zoologically perfect chimp behavior he begins barking and hooting, beating the floor with closed, in-curled fists, tossing clothes, blankets and toys, leaping and bouncing from chair and bed, shaking the easel and charging walls. Instinctual primate display foiled the ever developing human mind shifts gears into problem solving mode….
“I want attention”, it says to itself, “but she wont give it to me. What can I do to return the spotlight to me, where it belongs?”
Environmentally observed data is uploaded, historic observations are downloaded…common sense is still not an active participant…learned socially-dictated perimeters (i.e. rules) are considered but ultimately thrown out due to blatant disregard….microscopic little cogs and wheels turn…..BING!!!!! The marvel of biological evolution…the human brain has reached a solution!!!!
The very agile and athletic little Pickle drops his pants in a flash and into the corner soars his diaper almost in one fluid motion. He then squats, bare ass, in the middle of the floor; whether it be due to some innate male joy of defecating, some mischief inspired rush of adrenaline or simply the reckless cackle of a genuine idiot he starts a hauntingly evil little guffaw. Used to his antics Logan doesn’t immediately notice the dire peril suddenly looming in the room. By the time she glances his way a gift is piled regally in the dead center of her carpet. It is a lump of slick, wet poo; the color of rain soaked, desert soil.
“PICKLE !!!!!!!! DAAADDD!!!!!!,, Logan shouts with voice half panic, half acidic anger. This is the sweet crescendo he has been hungering for, jackpot of his own design. A triumphant screech rakes the walls as the death blow of his plan is implemented, he picks up his bare foot over the pile of is own feces, it hovers there for dramatic effect and BOOM, down he stomps!!!
By now Im past the counter, rounding the sofa, the tone of his wailing tells the story of this own success and is the coffin-nail of my doom. As soon as he hears me coming off he sprints toward his room with an inch of shit stuck like spring mud to his foot. With each rapid fire step a trail of guilt is drawn. I intersect him about 15 feet from his launch point, sweep him up, spin him crap ass toward the ceiling and proceed to start whacking…good ones too. ONE..TWO..THREE spanks all the while beginning the first authentic and unabridged ass-chewing of his young life…I spin him back over, plant him on the toilet and demand with a voice no one dare disobey to keep his booty right on that spot….his wide eyes glassy with pain and fear he suddenly knows that murder is trembling in my thick hands and he can judge the geometry of my gaze to be targeted directly at his thin neck.
“Daddy, Pickle trouble big, HUUGE????” he coyly says asks.
The End!
You, kind reader, can imagine your own version of the aftermath. Frantic calls to neighbors to find a carpet cleaner, hot water and disinfectant, another bath….all vital pieces to the puzzle.
What’s the moral of the story……HAVE GIRLS!
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