It came wrapped in a Hallmark envelop from my bride’s father and step-mom.  The card said, “This coupon good for three nights on the water in Laguna Beach”.  Fucking beautiful, we were tapped out so until then our honeymoon looked like box wine and filthy, bedroom sex.  “Filthy, bedroom sex” being a classic double entendre: as our bedroom is typically filthy, and this being our honeymoon….well.  Figure it out.

We had survived a week of last minute planning, out-of-town visitors, a drug-addled bachelor party (ok that was just me), an intimate “family” only wedding under a tree at dusk in the red rock desert, our reception the following night complete with food, dancing and gratuitous drinking.  By the morning following the soiree we were exhausted, half-sick and in desperate need of a break.  We said a few good-byes, napped awhile then we headed south on I-15 out of Vegas in the late afternoon. 

Hours later, deep into the megalopolis of LA proper when consulted the computer printout of our reservation confirmation, our step mother-in-law had located the beachfront hotel and booked their best suite ALL online.  The address was a five digit number on Pacific Coast Highway, nothing seemed mysterious about it. 

It was dark by the time we rolled through a quiet, weekday evening in downtown Laguna.  A feast of trendy galleries, posh boutiques and glamorous eateries planted seeds of promise in our young lovers’ hearts as we rolled past.  We drifted quietly down PCH enjoying the salt smell of the sea while monitoring the numerical advance of block after long, sporadic block.  As the numbers climbed we got closer to our hotel.  Finally we past the intersection which meant the next block promised our destination.  We were on the outskirts of the primary commercial district so the buildings were mostly dark, forced by the steep command of the slope to only be on the sea side of the roadway.   Small avenues shot off perpendicular, dead-ending at the seawall.  Our windows down, we could smell the kelp dying on the beach.  It was exciting and new like we were the characters in a romance novel, our honeymoon bed achingly close. 

I clicked off the addresses as we idled past 58001, 58003, 58005….. 58017 Pacific Coast Highway should be….right……heeeerrrreeee……….. 58025, 58027, 58029—intersection?  The 59000’s?   U-turn.  Back down the other side of the street, 58029, 58027, 58025—right there, it should be right there….58005, 58003.  It CAN’T be anywhere else, universal laws of mathematics demand it.  U-turn. Up the road, u-turn, down the road, it was maddening. 

There was no pink glimmer of neon “VACANCY” in a window, no warm glow of a quaint, up lit, hand carved bed and breakfast sign.  The only things noticeable at all were the numerous rainbow flags languishing in the warm summer night. On the corner of an avenuette were plate glass windows garishly painted to say ’BOOM BOOM ROOM’ open Wednesday through Sunday, Happy Hour 6-10.  A small placard diplomatically invited “Straight Friendly”.  It was a gay bar, not our hotel. 

WTF!!  I was travel and party tired, frustrated and looking to get my new bride into our honeymoon boudoir.  We had parked and were walking the sidewalk now.  Im not so cliché a male as to not ask for directions, but the sidewalk was empty.  It was Tuesday evening so the Boom Boom Room was closed.  I was at an impasse.

Between the nearby crashes of surf hitting sand snatches of conversation could be heard from an open door across the avenue.  A microscopic shop was housed in what looked to be a tool shed or toll booth boldly adorned in more rainbow flags.  A piece of plywood had been cut, hand painted in rounded cartoony letters then screwed onto the outside wall with wood screws; it said “Gay Mart- Books and Supplies”.   No bullshit, I couldn’t make this up. 

I strolled across the street and peeked inside.  Two young men sat sipping wine and talking by candle light. 

“Sorry, were closed.” One said politely.  They batted eyes and smiled coyly. 

“Just need some directions guys, sorry to bother you.”  I replied.

“Oh, you don’t seem to be a bother at all.  Glass of wine?” sweetly asked the nearest in white cashmere and penny loafers.

“Thanks anyway Tiger.” I winked. “Can you guys tell me where the Ocean Front Inn is?  I can’t find the address; it should be right across the street?” 

“Oh, it is. See those stairs,” the other, a portly chap in short cutoffs and a silk Hawaiian shirt said as he brushed by me. He pointed to an unmarked set of stairs behind the main highway and directly attached to the rear of the gay bar. 

“The hotel is up those stairs! You DO have to know it, to FIND it, dontcha!” he was hanging in the doorway like a turn of the century Parisian hooker, head tilted back talking to me over his shoulder. 

“You are SO bad, Jonathan.” mock scolded the sweater guy, “Let that boy go!”

“Hey I appreciate it fellas, take it easy on each other, “I said as I headed back across the street laughing to myself.  Unbelievable.

“Dear,” I said, arriving back at the car where she leaned, waiting.  “We are staying at a Gay Hotel. Grab your stuff, its right around the corner.

“You’re shitting me!” she said laughing, “That’s just great, Im going to have my husband stolen away by some runaway homo named Lance before the honeymoon is even over.  You better not get all GAY, I’ll kill you.”  My bride has never been the subtle, demure type.

We grabbed our bags, and then proceeded to climb the narrow stairs.  The stairs opened to a small but very nice open air, terra cotta courtyard with planters and iron patio furniture.  It was classy and immaculately kept, French doors on one side; more stairs toward the ocean on the other.  The small “Visa/MasterCard” sticker on the window made the guess easy.  Through the French doors into the office we went.

A small bell rattled, seconds later, after some rustling the sweetest little man appeared.  He was the perfect incarnation of the Fairy Godmother from the Cinderella Disney cartoon.  Kind and jovial and rounded, minus the gray beard he just emanated fairy godmother.

“Hi, were…………..” I couldn’t finish.

“YOURE FINALLY HERE”!!!! With that we were washed away on a pink flamingo tidal wave, a Cher soundtrack montage of hugs and kisses and questions.  My bribe got a flower bouquet and the brunt of the attention, an after thought bottle of wine for me. 

“You’re so beautiful,” it was a machine gun interview.  It was like a Bravo channel hurricane.   “How was the wedding? Do you have the dress? Can I see it Sugar? How did you wear your hair? OH MY GOD!!  You’re just so beautiful!” Throughout the barrage of hugs and kisses and top to toe longing gazes he continued, “What kind of shoes? Did you throw the corsage?  How as the cake? Did you eat the cake?  Darling, you’re so skinny; I bet you don’t eat a thing! WOW! Isn’t he a handsome one and so taaalllll, ummm umm girlfriend, didn’t you just find a keeper!!  Well he’ll be the bell of the ball around here Sugar, but don’t you worry, don’t be mad Honey!! He just screams straight. You might as well put it neon sign over that pretty head!”

“He does?” was all my bride managed to squeeze in. I had become a mere ornament. 

“OH MY GOD!! You two are just like Barbie and Ken; you’re like that little couple on top of the cake just jumped down and came to LIFE!!!  TEEERRRYYYY, they are here, and sooo precious.  Get out here Terry!”

Terry was a small, bespectacled man that radiated “professor” with as much certainty as his mate did magic wands and singing mice.  He had a soft strength and intelligent patience, he spoke like a dignitary and offered little more than a firm, confident handshake to me and a Fifth Avenue faux two cheek peck to my bride. 

“As you can tell, William has been beside himself with excitement all day,” said Terry. “Im sure you can guess that we don’t get many honeymooner’s here at the Ocean Front.  It is a treat for us and we hope you have a wonderful time!  William release that poor child and let them get settled.”  He handed me a key, gestured gracefully toward the stairs across the courtyard and advised I stay to the left.  As we exited William was tucked tightly under Terry’s loving arm and both waved.  They were the picture of two happy grandparents basking in the pride of their lineage.

Every room of the Ocean Front had a beach view. It was a tidy, well groomed structure retro-fit onto the rear of the original construction.  Three tiers of rooms, stair-stacked on each other, it clung to the back side of main building desperately comfortable like a baby koala high in the eucalyptus.  Each of the three floors sat slight back from the next so the higher floors could see into the balconies below.  Large rainbow flags trumpeted from each of the main corners.

Our room was magnificent. 

If the hotel part of the building was a 70’s brainchild of architecture and commercial opportunity, then our room was a fairy godmother’s long-awaited, gumdrop dream come true.  The room was more like a little casita perched on the hotel addition like a jewel on a crown, clearly of recent fabrication.  Where the lattice work of stairs and walk-ways lead down to reach the rest of the hotel’s rooms ours lead up.  Inside was a spartan kitchenette, small sitting area, big screen tv, standard bathroom , a king size bed and massive windows, nearly floor to ceiling stretching the entire width of the sea side wall.  The Pacific seemed to lap at the very edge of the balcony.  Everything was soft, clean and new.

“Holy Shit!” we each stammered. 

Exhausted we tossed our bags and collapsed.  My bride flopped on the bed; I plopped into a wicker chair and kicked a foot up on the railing of the terrace.  The saline wind and rhythmic surf lulled me into a half sleep.  Not sure how much time passed but a polite knock roused us both.

“They’re already here for you, Babe.  Go! Go then and be free with your gays!” mocked my bride, not one to ever miss a chance to insinuate my repressed love of cock.

I opened the door to a beaming William and slightly embarrassed Terry.  Between was a service cart laden in culinary luxuries.  William understood the open door to be an applied invitation, pushing the cart past me and into the room.

“Are you decent Sugar??”  he yelled rhetorically.

“Sorry, there is simply no stopping him once he gets something in his head.” stated Terry remaining at the threshold.

William rolled the cart parallel to the expansive windows, positioned two chairs at either side then snap-turned with a butler’s tight and proper efficiency and removed the sterling plate covers and rolled back the lid of a chaffing dish.  With silken fluidity he popped a champagne bottle, and began pouring flutes.

The setting was amazing!  Fresh cut roses, two New York steaks as thick as my fist, two scarlet Maine lobsters still steaming from the pot, fresh tossed greens, roasted asparagus, new potatoes, strawberries dipped in chocolate, matching cheese cake slices that seems to have fallen off a magazine cover; it was like a hollywood interpretation of the perfect romantic meal.  Our jaws dropped.

“I don’t know what to say…… we, I …. Ahhh”, I stuttered. 

“Oh, Sweetie, thank you and don’t worry.  It’s our wedding present to you.” he gestured toward a small white card, hand-written in lovely calligraphy. 

‘With Love’ 

Terry & William

“I just don’t think you quite understand what beautiful, little celebrities you’ve become. You two have created quite the divine stir; honeymooning here at this fierce and flamboyant chalet of all that is queer in Laguna Beach, California and darlings don’t you know there is A LOT of queer in this old town!” 

“Look here,” he continued, “This wine is from Room 126, there is a card from #211, and our friends Patrick and Thomas are just dying to meet you.  You two are the biggest thing to hit this town since the Sir Elton concert last spring.  Better get used to it.”

And so it was…..  We were the official dollhouse attraction for every queen south of Newport.  It was just about the most annoying thing I’ve ever experienced.

I couldn’t sit out side on the patio without catcalls and lurid remarks from the hands-in-the-air, techno dance parties below.  We had to walk a few hundred yards down the beach, in front of a standard resort to relax everyday because the Speedo and moustache brigade couldn’t manage to apply sunscreen without obvious erections and gratuitous touching of themselves. 

William and Terry proved to be wonderful and respectful.  We would often share and evening drink with them in the little courtyard before heading out to our own dinner and adventures away from the Fruitville fiesta. 

On the last night of our stay, coming home from dancing excessively drunk we decided on a nightcap at the Boom Boom Room where we got a round of fairy slap applause. 

We were sad to say good-bye but now, years later it’s hard not to miss our GAY HOTEL!

Little more than a window placard and a slightly embarrassed, glowing OPEN sign advertised its invitation for commerce.  There was no official parking lot, the front door swung directly onto the narrow sidewalk, almost past the curb and into traffic.  If discretion was a necessity, you had better time the change of the stoplight further up the street, because to exit the store meant full and complete exposure to four lanes of traffic.  No bushes or bus stop kiosks to screen your departure.  Whether by design of the local conservative power majority or mere real estate bad luck discretion was the toll to pay if you needed some anal lube or the current issue of Jugs magazine. Face the gambit, roll the dice—Would your Grandma or minister or boss or wife be passing by at the very second you popped out the door, festooned in guilt and caught like a deer in lowbeam spotlights.

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

We were enjoying a great ski weekend at Big Mountain.  The slopes by day, carousing Kalispell by night.  It was our usual gang, then by coincidental luck we bumped into another car load of fellas from back home; also in the Flathead for a ski weekend.   With them was an old, mutual friend that had transplanted to the area with his family.  A truly funny motherfucker he was.  Let’s call him “Stain”.  Stain was the type who could make watching a mound of grain dry into a raucous evening.  Constantly a comedian, master of flatulence and prank Stain was always a one man fun brigade.  In his presence you could count on SOMETHING good happening.

No Booze For You

We were not drinking, which in hindsight seems a bit shocking.  Whether the habit hadn’t yet struck or we just couldn’t find some sad, desperate loser to buy for us, I honestly don’t remember, but I do remember booze wasn’t involved.  This is important, for if we’d had booze we probably wouldn’t have been so bored. We might have gained the sparkling eye of the numerous Kalispell skanks which circled the four lane drag ripe to trade just about anything for a bottle of Boone’s Farm.   Things would have been different is my point. 

It Seems So Obvious

“Lets go check out the porno shop.” suggested Stain.  Off he marched toward that dull, poorly lit grail of teenage interest.   We all glanced at each other, considering no one had a better idea we fell in tow. 

Athletes all, we were tall and strong but even the sporadic tufts of whiskers didn’t fool the old crone that sat behind the display counter.  Stain barely made it through the door we before a crooked finger started wagging and a smoker’s voice demanded our departure.  The ancient woman had no interest in quid pro quo, seeing our ID’s, excuses, stories nor notes from our mother’s.  She wasn’t fooled and not about to let us in. 

On a stool sat an equally old man, smoking a cigarette.  He gestured rudely and guffawed at us.  He was clad in a baggy plaid shirt, suspenders and dirty jeans ; he was as age-shrunken tiny as the woman was sloppy, mustard stained fat.  She had a poofy head of  tight curls colored a cliched elderly blue.

We took offense to not being granted entry, though we all knew the law.  Slurs and expletives were exchanged like cannon volley.  I think the geezers were as bored as us.  We departed in a huff.  We had gained no new comprehension of undiscovered perversity  nor the arcane apparatuses of pornographic bliss.  We were disappointed. 

If you mix equal parts boredom and disappointment in teenage boys you typically concoct a plate of revenge and prankery.  Indeed it is, indeed.

LETS GET SOME EGGS!

It is unimportant and unknown who actually suggested we buy a few dozen eggs, but within mere minutes that is, in fact what we had.  It’s surprising how many eggs you can actually hold at one time.  Easily three eggs in your throwing hand and maybe up to five or six more cradled as reinforcements in the other.  Plenty is my point.  There were nine guys, each fully supplied; you can do the math.  And a plan, we had a plan for maximum damage and immediate avoidance of capture.  A get-away vehicle sat around the block, idling doors open, rear hatch gaping like the mouth of brown Ford hippo. 

As previously stated, we were all high-caliber athletes of proven performance. Accuracy and velocity were not going to be problem.  Still we needed a courageous volunteer to yank open, then keep the door wide while the strike force unleashed the embryonic salvo.  “Faceman” did his patriotic duty, handed over his eggs, popped his collar and staged alone on the sidewalk.  The rest of us causally loitered across the street waiting for the stoplight far up the block to change. 

When the traffic on the four lane street died, offering a partial minute’s respite we leaped into action running into the street.  Faceman timed his move perfectly, reaching the door as we hit the median.  He pulled open the door then pinned it with a shoulder as he hunkered down and covered up. 

I’m sure the ol’ bitty thought she was being robbed.  She went rigid and wide- eyed, smoldering cig still between her leathery talons.  Understandable as her visual was that of a gang of dark forms rapidly approaching the door in the dim, cast off, yellow hue of weak and far off street lamps.  There was no way either codger could have seen the beaming barrage of white ellipses already air-bourne when the door swung open. 

Impact

The first egg struck directly above her blue-gray frizzy ‘fro nearly parting it like Moses at the sea.  It exploded hard with a dead thug right on the pink head of an absolutely gigantic, black, flesh-colored dildo handing on the wall.  Imagine the largest Africa-American (or just African) human penis ever discovered on Earth. Picture that truly magnificent result of human evolution…….. then scale it up by FOUR.  This dildo of donkey nightmares, this phallus of female impossibility, this cubic yard of molded rubber was the epicenter of impact zone one.  The force of collision caused the beast to spasm on its meager wall hook.  The hook could bare the quaking enormity no longer and down tumbled the heavy schlong right onto the increasingly startled head of madam proprietor.  This was clearly insult to injury.

Everything happened fast after the first impact. 

“DUCK!!!” yelled the old man as he dove for cover.  Shell fragments and yellow streamers of yolk were splattering wildly.  The old lady was too shell-shocked to move, despite been bludgeoned by a gratuitously large dick.  She stood transfixed.  Slimy ropes of egg struck then matted her geriatric afro with increasing frequency.  Jars of lube were toppled, condoms rained down behind the counter, cellophane wrapped magazine cover girls and VHS movie sirens got an unanticipated, post production money shot.  It was slimy chaos.  It was an albumen murder screen. 

Then It Was Over

Speedy footsteps, crashing car doors and chirping tires were all that could be heard, all except for the laughter of the devious.

Something was amiss, seemed off, wrong, sad, even to our young man’s eager eyes. The Starbuck Brothers and I were leaning against a heavy, anchor chain that acted as a barrier along the sea wall rising from the cruise ship docks.  We were watching people stream in an almost unbroken line from the breezeway of our cruise ship, up the Cll Comercio, a narrow cobble street, past the lovely Edificio Federal building and into the smoked glass doors of the Hard Rock Café. A few of the more independent beasts broke rank and meandered to the curio stands or took snapshots of the marina, the sea or the beautifully lit twilight walls of Old San Juan.  In the distance the ramparts of ancient Fort San Juan which stood like a tarnished old crown on the square head of a definant, crumbling king. 

These white, everyday people were not more than a block into the quaint splendor that is Old San Juan. Not a goddamn block.  After a long wait and poor service they would be treated to a generic cheese burger, coke and a t-shirt to mark the occasion.  The younger adventurers would likely then walk next door to a bad discothèque attempting, but failing, to recreate the shirtless revelry of spring break Mexico. The older cruisers marched back as perfect penguins to the pre-conceived, spoon feed entertainment of the ship’s ballroom filled with feather-headed chorus lines.

We were still young men, early 20’s, wet behind the ears in societies eye but despite our spry, puerile hearts we knew there was something wrong with the scene before us……a magnificent Caribbean night in a forgotten and mysterious place and the best these people could do was a block and a burger……. it was just sad.

The Starbuck Boys and I shook our heads, fuck that. We walked into the narrow European streets of Old San Juan.  Smiles and nods greeted us as we past old shop windows; candy shops, perfumeries, textile stores, actual cobblers, glinting jewels behind sagging, lead windows 200 years old.  Further we walked till these typical tourist shops dwindled, till the smiles we encountered were of local maids or workman walking home with carts of fresh vegetables and paper wrapped fish.  In a modest square that smelled like parament and the truth of 500 years of life; life trapped in the mortar like bugs in amber.  From a bank of rotary dial phones I called my parents, collect, just because I wanted to hear the operator mention Puerto Rico; I hadn’t told them I was going.  They were surprised.

Leathery old men played dominos and held palaver around concrete tables, groups of hunched-over women laughed, their dry, corn-husk cackles scraped the night.  It could have been Seville or Porto or 1680.  We were the only white people for blocks.  We wandered on passing groups of energetic youth laughing, juggling soccer balls, grab-assing with obsidian haired beauties.  They would stop and check us out, silent chin-pops of curious acknowledgement exchanged. No hostility.

Eventually we found a bar.  A tiny, six stool, open air-joint where two of four walls were roll-up garage doors.  It had a juke box with decent tunes, and if you were shooting pool from on corner of the table your ass hung out in the street.  It was the right kind of place.  We paid 75¢ for draft Bud, like I said, it was the right kind of place. 

Almost as we stepped “inside” a tropical rain started to fall, heavy all at once.  The cobblestone splatters created a beehive drone, an opague wall of sound that isolated us from the outside world.  We played pool and drank beer.  You could lean against the juke, sip a cold brew while the other hand was outside showering in 80 degree rain.  The butt of your cue would get soaked when shooting from the southeast corner.  Bosso nova and latin jazz bounced. If you add up the combine age of the Starbuck Brothers and I we would have been half as old as the next youngest patron.  The bartender was an English ex-pat living the Parrothead dream.  We bought our drafts ten dollars at a time.

A scraggly, young man came in begging.  The bartender warned us off buying him a beer but for 75¢ we didn’t care, we needed another to play partners pool.  For the next few hours we drank beer and shot pool with a Puerto Rican bum.  He was a nice dude, with enough English to thank us for the beer.  He smiled a lot.

It was time to speak with the whales.  The rain had stopped, the night was hot, moist, smelled like a new promise.  We shook hands, thanking the bartender. 

“Wanna smoke a joint?” we asked the bum.  He put pitched fingers to his dirty lips, questioning with his eyes.

“Mar-i-hauna?” he pronounce each syllable with surgeon’s care, “Si, Si, Si!!!!  Come, come !!”  He beckoned, smiling and trotted down the street.  Looking back, urgent, excited, waving with his ungroomed hand.

“Hermanos, come, hermanos, hermanos” he called.  We followed through twisting streets, narrow alleys; we hand no agenda but to make the boat and its midnight departure.  We finally emerged from the tight city walls to a narrow avenue running along the coastal cliffs.  

“Meet my f-r-i-endss, my a-meeegos” he waved and hopped over the barrier along the edge of the street, dropping mostly out of view and scampering a few feet out onto a ledge.  He whistled.  Soon dirty men started to appear, like a poof of bum magic, two, then four, then six.

This is literally, the spot we smoke the joint

The Brothers and I looked at each other, wary.  Suddenly we were outnumbered by Puerto Rican vagrants standing only feet from a 70 foot drop into the ocean. 

“Stay close together and away from that fucking edge” I said under my breath.  There was a moment where distrust hung as thick as the sea salt in the temperate air. The surf thundered on the rocks far below. 

“Todo bien, todo bien!! I-t OK.  D-eees m-y f-r-i-ends. OK OK”, he had sensed us prickle.

Soon eager handshakes passed, there was no danger.  Our hobo friend was beaming with pride at having us meet his compadres.

We laughed together passing joints as our legs dangled over the sea wall.  The antique mortar sticking to our shorts like Velcro, the far off lights of San Juan twinkled across the heaving sea, toots and bells from passing vessels echoed off the rocks and walls, we were beautiful in our simplicity.  Our bum friends talked and pointed excitedly, telling us stories we could not understand.  We were three white boys suddenly friends with a hand full of Puerto Rico’s homeless, in a city centuries old amid a humid tropical night; it was not your usual situation, was not in any travel guide but both sides were equally proud of the other. 

We had a ship to catch, leaving our friends to a life unknown.  We walked back toward the docks passing a loud group of drunken Americans.  Each had identical, white Hard Rock Café t-shirts.  They were on the patio of the Hard Rock Café. 

We didn’t have cool, t-shirts like they did but were willing to call it even.

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.

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 Uncle Jim heaving a bale while my little,  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 b-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, 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 to the north.  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.  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, at the time was a dashing thirty 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 had never seen the man lose control, never a flap or waver.

Im not talking about too many margaritas then leaving silly, tire tracks in the snow kind of lost control.  It started on the surface, a flesh tickle, a passing fancy, a clever comic cartoon, but like a lard covered burn it melted deeper, and deeper.  Soon he laughed spine deep, laughed harder and harder as he absorbed the tableau; until he was swept away by the fits, saliva leaking 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 it, 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.

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

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.

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.