Scribbler's Debris

Running with random topics twenty minutes at a time.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Topic: Concert

Spring 1989. I'm a senoir in high school with my own apartment. Talk about cool. Because of my living arrangement and the school's need to keep a close eye on oh-so-independent me, I tell my guidance counselor I'll be missing a few days of school. Lois wants to know why. The boys are coming to town, silly. Huh? The Dead, you know, the Grateful Dead. And so, it's approved. My grades are rockin' and my attendance is better than it ever was when I lived with my parents. She tells me to be careful, have a good time and don't go joining the circus. K, Lois.

My roommate and I head out in her fully packed Omega Moo, a falling apart piece of shit car that works well enough for our purposes. The drive up route 51 to the city takes about an hour and a half. Who cares. It's spring. We've got weed, smokes, brews and tickets. Aww yeah! Take me home.

And there it is, the big silver mushroom. I love this place cause I can run around and around and see the show from wherever I please. But before all that, there are folks to meet, joints to smoke, crafts to trade, shopping to do, brews to drink, hot hot hotties to see, and acid to find. We park the car and let out screams of excitement that could easily be mistaken for a rebel yell.

Other heads are milling around the lot in their colorful garb of the day (or week if they're really on the road). Tailgating at its finest. Some folks have blankets spread in front of their cars to display their art for sale. Clothing, pottery, jewelry, prints, bumper stickers. That's it! I wanna sell bumper stickers while I'm here. I find my favorite one, 'Garcia Later', and make a deal with the dude that made them. I'm getting them for fifty cents a pop. Sell 'em for two dollars. Voila! Drug money! This is too easy.

Let me cut to the chase here because time is a wastin. Second night. I'm still pushin the Garcia Later bumper stickers when I realize that it's almost show time. Shit! I listen closely to the passers by to see who mumbles what. Back when it was safe, cats used to walk around quietly advertising their, uh, medicine. Yeah, right. Drugs people, lots of drugs in them there parking lots. I'm looking and listening for mushrooms. It's been a while since a ventured into that part of my head/spirit.

An older guy with a fluffy beard approaches me. Did I want some? Heck yes! and he's giving me alot. Both my hands are full and I have no where to put them cause I'm heading in soon and all I have on me is a ticket and a pack of Camels. I eat all of them.

I'm super silly and nauseated in no time at all, which is what I expected, kind of. Shortly into the first set, the boys play Walkin' Blues. I'm pretty sure they're telling me to get up off my ass and move around. (Start walkin' little lady, you'll feel better.) Well alright. I'm dancin' and be boppin around and listening to every thing the band says because I know this: if you get confused listen to the music play. That's all I know too, cause that quarter ounce of mushrooms done clouded up my head. I can take it, just can't shake the pukey feeling.

The bathroom is yellow tile and the lights make my skin look blue when I look into the mirror. I touch my face to make sure I'm still there. I am. And I know better than to mirror trip. So I jet into the stall to barf. It tastes terrible, but I've just escalated my high oh high-o.

Now we're out in the west texas town of el paso falling in love with some mexican chick, when I find a peacock feather. Blessing, must be. Feather goes into hand. I climb over the string being held up by folding chairs to take my position. Of course! From behind the stage the boys in the band look like skeleton puppets. Conductor? Yes! That's me! I'm leading the band (from behind) with my magic peacock feather. Joy of joys, what do you mean I can't be here?

Back out into the mazy halls when what do I see, but a bunch of cops beating on dead heads. WTF! They're outside. I'm inside. The band plays Victim or the Crime and I don't flippin know what I did with my shoes nor can I communicate any words without the use of limricks, rhymes and fairy tale speak. Oh boy. A couple older guys try to latch on to keep an eye on me, but I'm too fast and I need to find my brother. Has anybody seen my brother? I yell. Has anybody seen my brother? He looks just like me only fuzzier.

Half time lasts a life time and no amount of the kind can smooth out this ride. I wanna look down from the moon for a minute. Can I look down from the moon, Georgie? (brother's friend - close enough) He's got his arm around me and he's telling me nice things and giving me water n' weed. A lovely moment, now back to the show.

The music is my guide and I'm following all the clues they give me. The entire universe makes total sense to me, but I can't tell anybody because my mouth is out of order. Stella Blue sends me over the edge, so beautiful I can't take another second of it. Sugar Mag's got blossoms bloomin' so I go outside to find a flower.

Right. Cop scene. Scary cop scene. Has anybody seen my brother? I sit down to smoke a cigarette and notice my shoeless feet. Gotta go back inside and find the hiding place. That's where I'll find IT. I slip right back into the show, look around me. There's Rue and Becky and Gregg and Andy and my brother who looks like me only fuzzier. Together we sway to the last song of the night. Telepathically, I tell my bro of my adventures. When he nods and says I know, I'm certain he understands. Garcia Later, sis. Much later....

1 Comments:

  • At 11:16 PM, Blogger deadboys13 said…

    wow. I was just looking in my music collection and found two 45's in my collection when I belonged to the Grateful Dead Fan Club. With original letters signed by Jerry Garcia and I happened across this website. We must meet.

     

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