“I used to do drugs. I still do, but I used to, too.”

 —Mitch Hedberg

We couldn’t believe our luck. It was as if the heavens opened and the gods of good music rained down upon us their gifts and favors. My little vacation looked like this: on Wednesday, Jayme & Pete were coming down from the Canyon to Flag, where we were going to see Wilco at the Orpheum. On Thursday, we were driving down to Tucson to see Wilco AGAIN at the Rialto. And on Friday, I was trekking way the hell into the godforsaken California desert for the two-day Coachella Music and Arts Festival, where I was to see Wilco AAGGAAIINN on Saturday.

Fuck. The two AZ shows in two days was filling enough, but three felt gluttonous. By the end of their Saturday set, I’d be waddling full-bellied around that big manicured polo field, burping aloud with a toothpick hanging from my greasy lips:

“More Wilco?”

“No thanks (earrrp), believe I’ve had enough. Alka-Seltzer, please.”

We had tickets bought and everything. Goddamned if I wasn’t going to pull THIS one off, hell yeah. This was some heavy shit, some major music nerdity. Not as much as Blaine cashing in all his frequent-flyer miles and half his vacation time in order to see Tool in San Diego, Tucson, Las Vegas, San Francisco, and TWICE in L.A. within an 8-day span (he didn’t have a girlfriend at the time), but not too shabby. And Blaine tends to raise the bar pretty high, so to speak.

It felt too good to be true, and it was. Less than a week before the festivities were to begin, I happened to be cruising by wilcoworld.net and the whole damn thing came crashing down with the news that singer Jeff Tweedy had checked himself into rehab and the first leg of their tour was cancelled.

It was a bummer of epic proportions. Jayme and Pete were so depressed they didn’t leave their house for days. I moped out to Coachella, hungry for Wilco, and had to settle for consuming lots of acid with Blaine and seeing Radiohead, The Pixies, Kraftwerk, Broken Social Scene, Flaming Lips, Beck, The Evens, Basement Jaxx, Atmosphere, Perry Farrell DJing, Belle and Sebastian, Erase Errata, and The Cure in one weekend. What a drag.

Flash forward 12 months. Wilco has FINALLY rescheduled Flagstaff, and we’re traipsing down Aspen Avenue on cloud nine, lalala, oh not much, just WALKING SIX BLOCKS FROM MY HOUSE TO SEE WILCO, nothing special.

The cast of characters for our little drama is: the band, myself, Jayme & Pete, my Flag friend Jessica, and four hits of righteous liquid LSD, which we have just partaken of prior to the show. Mmmmm. We’ve already caught the band in Phoenix to whet the appetite, but we can just feel tonight is going to be special (little did we know …).

The Orpheum staff gape at our year-old tickets, wrinkled but still intact. They call over other employees to see. Yeah, that’s right bitches, we take this shit SERIOUSLY. Step aside.

The acid kicks in right as opening band Calexico, just for the record nerds and dopers in the house, kicks into “Alone Again Or”, song #1 off Love’s Forever Changes LP from 1967, reportedly a great year for music and drugs. Perfect.

During Wilco’s set, I stand in front of lead guitarist Nels Cline and watch his right hand become some sort of high-speed power tool, hacking and gouging huge chunks of wood and metal out from the body of his Fender Jazzmaster, while each finger of his left hand is representing a different color of the rainbow shooting out like a laser across the packed house. Sweet.

My most vivid non-hallucination of the evening is glancing randomly through the crowd and spying Jayme repeatedly making a junkie-stabbing-in-the-needle motion during “A Shot In The Arm”. Classy.

After the show, we regroup outside and decide to get refreshments up the street at the Monte V, a local hole

However, Jayme spies the band’s big shiny tour vehicle and her eyes light up.

“Let’s get Wilco to have a drink with us!”

“Uhh … what?”

“Sure, why not? Tweedy probably won’t come, but I bet some of the other guys will!”

We looked at the quietly imposing black bus.

“You mean, you’re just going to waltz in there and say: ‘Yo Wilco, c’mon down to the V and have some PBR with the natives?'”

“What the hell, it’s worth a try. And I’d definitely buy them something better than that swill. Come on, what do we have to lose?”

I felt the acid still dancing in my system. I glanced at the bus again and was pretty sure it was shooting out rainbows this time. I looked at our dates, then at Pete’s dopey perma-grin. I felt my jaw aching and knew he and I were in the same place. Just waiting for the aliens to land. I pictured Pete and myself aboard the bus:

“Huhhuhhuh … hey Wilco, that wuz cool. You guys rock.”

“Yeah! Yeah! Rock! Rock! Heeheeheeheehee!”

I assessed our situation.

“How ’bout you gals talk to the band while me and Beavis here go on ahead to the bar?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I bet two pretty unaccompanied ladies can get on board easier than all four of us.”

They couldn’t argue with that logic.

“Just don’t leave town with them.”

We split up. Pete and I strolled toward the bar.

“Do you think it’ll work?”

“Don’t know, but if anyone can pull this off, Jayme can.”

“Man, that’s one intense chick. Sure hate to be married to her!”

“You are married to her, Pete.”

“Shit.”

“I’m feelin’ your pain, bro.”

“Have the aliens landed yet?”

“Soon, Pete. Soon.”

The V was busy. We made our way upstairs and got drinks. Less than ten minutes later Jayme approaches, wearing what can only be described as a shit-eating grin.

“We got two of ’em.”

 “Two of what?”

 “Wilco. They’re over by the door.”

We looked across the bar and there was John Stirratt and Pat Sansone of the rock band Wilco sitting at a table in the freakin’ Monte V jabbering with Jessica. Pete went slack-jawed. My mind short-circuited.

“Yeah, c’mon down. Maybe if you guys are real nice to me I’ll introduce ya.”

Jayme led us to their table like the High-Priestess-and-Gatekeeper-of-Everything-Hip-and-Groovy-on-this-Planet that she was. We sat down. Jessica skipped off to the ladies’ room and Jayme went to get drinks for the boys. The four of us looked at each other. We made our introductions.

“John.”

“Pat.”

“Pete.”

“Mmungrff.”

We stared at them, and they at us. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I took a sip of my drink. I glanced at Pete. He looked like a deer in the headlights and was engrossed in gulping down his beer. I turned my gaze back at two of the men we had just seen onstage less than an hour before. I kicked my LSD-soaked brain in the ass. SAY SOMETHING, IDIOT!

“You guys rock.”

“Thanks.”

Silence….

“Yeah, good show.”

“Hey, thanks.”

 LONG silence…

 “So … Flagstaff. What’s it like living here?”

  “It’s OK, the weather’s nice … not a lot to do …”

  More silence…

“Beavis, I mean Pete here works up at the Grand Canyon.”

 “Oh yeah? What’s that like?”

“Oh yeah? What’s that like?”

“It’s OK, not a lot to do … the weather’s nice …”

It got no better. The ladies managed to jump-start the conversation upon their return, but Pete and I sat there like two goobers through the whole thing. Every time one of the girls tried to hand the ball to one of us, we’d just go “uh-huh” and grin like monkeys.

John and Pat were friendly, but they had to go after another round, being hard-working professional musicians and all. As we said goodbye and watched them leave, I grew tired of kicking my brain’s ass and thought: I should have a list ready for situations like this. I mean, hell, I was close to being obsessed with this band. I probably knew more about their discography than THEY did! And I’ve been playing guitar and buying records most of my life! Rumor has it I’ve got a pretty good sense of humor too! I can converse like a motherfucker! Especially on LSD! As soon as they walked out that door, dozens of conversation starters ran through my head:

“Yeah, this is the Monte V. What a shithole, huh? Supposed to be haunted, though …”

“Cool keyboard setup, Pat. Is that one thing a Mini-Moog?”

“How’s the Autumn Defense going? Are you going to make another album?”

“John, you’re from New Orleans; ever see Huey Smith play? Or Professor Longhair? Guess what? WE’RE TRIPPING RIGHT NOW!”

“Did you guys put that long noise track on the new record just to piss people off?”

“Saw Nels Cline play right here with Mike Watt a couple years ago. Slipped Watt a joint before the show, heh heh. Touched the econo-van for good luck, too …”

“OK, which side ya on, Bushmill’s or Jameson’s?”

“I was living in Lincoln Park when Lounge Ax opened. Saw a bunch of shows there. I sorta knew Jeff’s wife Susan before they were married, don’t suppose she’ll remember me …”

“Wow, Neu! sure is bitchin’, aren’t they? Ever heard Amon Duul? Or Faust?”

“Jim O’Rourke was in a few of my music classes at DePaul. Nice guy. I still have a cassette of his old band The Elvis Messiahs …”

“How does Nels do that thing with the rainbow lasers shooting from his fingers? That was cool.”

“I’m in a band too, maybe we can open for Wilco sometime, hahaha! Seriously, here’s a demo …”

“Watch out behind you there, fellas; I think the aliens just walked in.”

“Any plans to collect Wilco’s B-sides? There’s this one song called Student Loan Stereo …”

“Did I mention we were tripping? Hell yeah, it’s good. Want some?”

“Tell us about the time Warren Zevon was a total dick to you guys.”

Etc. Etc. Et-fucking-cetera.

I still can’t believe we sat in the V for an hour with two members of Wilco, yet not one person recognized them, despite the fact that most of the patrons were probably at the show. We were right by the door too. Of course, no one WE knew came in, either:

“Hey, you guys … oh not much, just HANGIN’ WITH WILCO, nothing special …”

Collapsing Shack, AZ—There was a time when a parent’s primary concern involved worrying whether their children might drive too fast, eat too much sugar, or vote Republican. Then, thanks in part to the Ghetto Shaman, drug use and teen pregnancies exploded. Then this last generation started planking, idolizing jackass stunts, and joining crawdad cults. Those issues pale in comparison to this new youth trend; I am talking about the dreaded Taser Party! 

The youth of today are purchasing tasers by the thousands, but instead of carrying them to protect themselves from muggers, rapists, and Jehovah’s Witnesses, they are using them on each other for shocks and giggles. Despite the fact that tasering a person can lead to heart attacks, incontinence, erectile dysfunction and dry mouth, many kids are jumping on this bandwagon and shocking each other silly.

I caught up with William Lynn, owner of ‘Shock Till You Drop’, and he shared with me his teen pitch: “Bored, not sure what to do? Are underage drinking and meth finally losing their thrill? Is casual unprotected sex just becoming the same ol’ same ol’? Well, then why not plan a Taser Party? Charge up one of these little babies and tase your friend in the neck when he’s not looking. If he doesn’t like it, just tase him a few more times until he does. It’s hard to enact revenge when you’re unconscious. Don’t forget two for one Tasedays and think of the money you’ll save on electro convulsive therapy!”

When I pointed out that tasering was very painful and potentially fatal, he tased me in the face and threw me into the basement. Then he kept saying, “It puts the electrodes on its skin or it gets the hose again.”

For a week I was forced to eat take-out and perform unnatural acts with his homeopathic taser collection. He let me go only when I agreed to accompany him on a whirlwind tour of the southern states to help him sell tasers, dart guns, and condoms full of formaldehyde outside of the public middle schools. “Good honest work,” he called it.

One concerned parent said, “I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my day, but when the laughter of children is replaced by screams of terror as the interior of households light up like a super cell thunder cloud, I just don’t know what to think. Why can’t they just do a line of blow and have underaged sex like we used to do? I’m now hearing of youngsters tossing toasters into bathtubs while their friends are bathing. They believe it’s all good fun, but think about all the money their parents spent on those appliances. Do we really need kids chewing through our laptop cords just to get a buzz?”

Increasing the warning labels has had little noticeable effects on this disturbing trend, even when all electrical devices were covered with statements like:

Friends Don’t Let Friends Tase Their Nuts

Electricity Will Make You Stupid, Stupid

Drugs Not Jolts

This Is Your Brain On Current

President Obama has even gotten involved and pledges to lower the age of consent to 12 and make all drugs legal in the U.S., provided children “stop playing Taser Tag.” 

Is there any hope for America’s children? Will we become a country of Seizure Heads and Shock Jockeys? President Obama has a direct message for today’s youth on this matter, “Get out there and hump something, kids! Just not a toaster.”

Phoenix, AZ—After meeting Mick and entourage at a pool party on the surface of the sun, we decided to go see the new Star Trek movie the next day, en masse. As my lovely bride and I waited outside the theater the next morning, it was then I remembered that Micko doesn’t really do mornings, per se. He is more of a crack-of-nooner, as it were.

What to my surprise should appear but a bearded Mick and entourage, all bright-eyed and, well bright-eyed was enough… We got our tickets, our obligatory 55 gallon drum of soda and pail of popcorn, paid a small fortune, cursed, and went inside.

PopKAAAAAHRN!!!! Sorry. Spoiler alert.

I have to say this up front. I am a fan of the stupid original series, in all its stupid stupidity—moronic story lines and all. Gene Rodenberry was not a genius foreteller of the future. I will get much heat for this, but here it goes:

Gene Rodenberry was a chain-smoking ex-cop who had one great idea at the absolute right time, and milked it for all it was worth, never passing up a strange piece of ass in the process, even though he managed to stay somewhat happily married.

I also want you all to know this, I am a big fan of New Zealand’s Karl Urban, back to his Hercules and Xena guest rolls. I also feel he is good as Bones, but a bit of a waste. He is reduced in this film to repeating all the same old cliché lines that were badly written for Deforest Isonfire. If you want to see Karl being, well, Karl, see the remake of Judge Dredd. Blows Stallone away. He makes Stallone an Expendable… What? Too Over the Top?

It seems as though Simon Pegg got a better contract. He has more lines and slightly more meaningful ones. He just needs to put on a few pounds. And he is WAY too happy to be a real Scotsman. We all know they threw Craig Ferguson out of Scotland for being jolly.

Jon Cho’s Sulu is like Bones, almost invisible. Apparently, in the Star Trek world, it pays to have breasts. Zoe Saldana as Uhura was great. She gave the original character much more depth. And her “affair” with Spock is somehow totally believable.

I do feel as though they hit the mark with Chris Pine and Zak Quinto. They ARE Kirk and Spock, only more realistic.

Micko says that he thought some of the old back and forth banter was “corny”. I disagree (surprise). I feel a little corny is what the original was all about, and I feel omitting all the corny would have hurt the movie. Trekkers of the Corn?

See? Totally necessary.

These lines are also somewhat better written than Bones’ or Sulu’s. Mick and I do agree that some of the special effects were awe inspiring. All that being said, I want to know why they fucked with the final scenes. I will not spoil it for those who have not yet seen it, but boy do they fuck with one of the most memorable scenes in Star Trek History. Now go see it.

Crank Long and Popcorn.

Philadelphia, PA—The Daily Discord Tower is under siege at this hour by America’s Western Crawdad Warfront Against the Repulsive Daily Discord (A.W.C.W.A.R.D.D.). CEO of the Discord, Pierce Winslow, is currently holed up in his ivory tower. He’s trying to electrify the outside of the building to thwart the attacking crawdads as he apparently “saw it once on a Star Trek episode.”

Kenny the Crawdad, best known for his posters promoting pre-adolescent smokers, said A.W.C.W.A.R.D.D. is gearing up to, “Use any means at our disposal to fight against Alex Bone and his crawdad hating lackeys at the Discord. And remember kids, smoking is cool.”

Dr. William Lynn, a spokesman for the crawfish and advocate for mandatory euthanasia for the ugly, said, “Alex Bone has not only been boiling my clients alive and then eating their flesh, he is also very vocal in his tirades against these peaceful aquatic invertebrates.”

Lynn told the press, “First off, we would like to see Alex Bone fired from the Discord and then pinched really hard over and over again for a week. The crawdads want him to be stripped naked, covered in butter, and then forced to wear a crawdad suit for a month while holding a sign stating how much he hates all snakes and Yig.”

This just in:

The crawdads have grown bored and are scurrying away from the Discord Tower at this hour—as Mr. Winslow took his fourth two week vacation this month and isn’t even there.

As many readers are already aware, we need to be preparing for humanity’s final battle against the tripartite of evil, which is the Dark Alliance between the Crawdads, Migo, and Zombies. There is further information located here and here on this important matter.

Crawdads are an invasive species destroying ecosystem after ecosystem. Hell, they’re worse than Republicans. They need to be stopped! Do your part, Citizen. Get some nets and purchase some bulk butter at Costco. Don’t worry if you don’ have a license, just explain to the park ranger you are fighting the good fight for Yig and for all of mankind.

And remember:

Service Guarantees Citizenship

I won’t whack near any shrubbery here: the worst song ever written, in my fleeting egotistical opinion, is “Tonight’s the Night” by Rod Stewart. Why this tune? Why not any selections from the Michael Bolton or Bon Jovi catalogues? Why pick on Rod?

“Rarely has a singer had as full and unique a talent as Rod Stewart; rarely has anyone betrayed his talent so completely. Once the most compassionate presence in music, he has become a bilious self-parody … and sells more records than ever.”

— Greil Marcus

Yes, unlike Mikey or Jon-Jon, his Rodness once possessed that magical quality known as “integrity”, and “Tonight’s the Night” represents the almost complete disappearance of it.

Between the years 1968-1973, Rod Stewart participated in nearly a dozen of the loosest, swingingest, sloppiest, drunkest, good time rock and roll albums ever made. Two with the Jeff Beck Group (Truth and Beck-Ola), five with the Faces (First Step, Long Player, A Nod is as Good as a Wink, Ooh La La, and a live one) and four solo (The Rod Stewart Album, Gasoline Alley, Every Picture Tells a Story, and Never a Dull Moment). Pick up a few, you won’t be sorry.

These records are just bursting with heart and soul and booze and humor and dirt and tears and friendship and love and honesty and spine. Rod and his mates are clearly having a blast, you can hear it in the grooves. And what mates! Jeff Beck, Ron Wood, Nicky Hopkins, Mick Waller, Tony Newman, Ronnie Lane, Kenney Jones, Ian MacLagan, Martin Quittenton … and Rod. All equals. Comrades.

Like many of his peers, Rod Stewart began his career as an interpreter of others’ works, then grew into a fine songsmith himself. Rod wrote or co-wrote a slew of stone classics during this period, including “Gasoline Alley”, “Mandolin Wind”, “Stay With Me”, “True Blue”, “You Wear it Well”, “Bad ‘n’ Ruin”, “That’s all You Need”, “Every Picture Tells a Story”, “Too Bad”, and “Maggie May”, his first #1.

The Faces in concert were like five best buds down at the corner pub playing all your faves on a Saturday night (there’s at least three full live sets posted on youtube.com). They punted soccer balls into the audience. Every song was a sing-a-long. Guitar solos got botched, background vocals went out of tune, strings broke, drumsticks flew, the bassist had a few too many and fell off the stage … they were the greatest. Everyone, band and fans, was there to have a jolly good inebriated bash and that’s what they got.

Then it ended. Superstardom beckoned for Rod but not his friends. He broke up the Faces. He began dating models and jetting with the cocaine set. His mockery of the jaded playboy personality became the real thing, much like Bryan Ferry’s did. Coincidentally, Mick Jagger succumbed to this lifestyle around the same time and, not so coincidentally, the Rolling Stones’ music also took a dive in quality. Not as far as Rod’s, though. His next two albums, Smiler and Atlantic Crossing, were okay but nowhere near the high standards he had set for himself. Still, they contained nothing truly horrible.

That would come in 1976. A Night on the Town was partially recorded at the famed Muscle Shoals Studios by R&B producer Tom Dowd. Due to the talent involved, the record has a few highlights but is bogged down by the sugary glop of its leadoff track, “Tonight’s the Night”. Rod had sold his soul to that skanky whore fame and had stooped to writing songs for housewives and dilettantes. He was rewarded with another #1 single.

Other superstars such as Paul McCartney had done similar, but while Paul’s granny music was mostly innocuous, Rod’s was downright sleazy, the soundtrack to a date rape. Stewart was only 31 when he recorded “Tonight’s the Night”, but he already has the creepy old guy vibe rolled out.

Examining the lyrics of pop songs like they were poetry is a pointless endeavor 99% of the time, but Rod richly deserves this one. So here we go:

Stay away from my window

Stay away from my back door, too

Not a bad opening. Go away babe, I still love you but can’t bear to see your face. It’s got potential. But then comes:

Disconnect the telephone line

Relax baby, and draw that blind

The girl is already in Rod’s house and he’s telling her not to go near the windows or doors. Oh yeah, the phone is unplugged too. All her means of escape are pretty much cut off. And pull them curtains while you’re up, honey. No witnesses. Now RELAX.

Let me pour ya a good long drink

How about a Roofie Colada? Rod then proceeds to rhyme “drink” with “hesitate”. Seriously, he’s not even trying.

Many critics of “Tonight’s the Night” point to this droolingly obvious double entendre as a perfect example of its wretchedness:

Spread your wings and let me come inside

Even a prominent feminist like Ted Nugent might blush at that. For me, the song bottoms out right after the supremely slimy “sexy” sax solo (even the MUSIC of “Tonight’s the Night” is leering) when Rod the Scrod delivers this timeless gem:

 Don’t say a word, my virgin child

 Just let your inhibitions run wild

Ewww. Was this considered seductive in the 1970s? I know rock and roll has always been about sexing up the young ladies, but how can that couplet NOT make your skin crawl? “Don’t say a word, my virgin child” sounds like a line Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs might use on the girl in the pit. It rubs the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose.

The secret is about to unfold

Upstairs before the night’s too old

And that secret is … Rod’s rod. So get your butt in the bedroom bitch, because it’s about to unfold.

To cap this mess off, over the sleazed-out harmony guitar riff that closes the song (and God damn you Rod for making harmony guitar riffs suck), we hear a female voice cooing in a foreign language, possibly Española.

SHE’S A VIRGIN WHO DOESN’T EVEN SPEAK ENGLISH!

Rod has a skinny fourteen year old Mexican waif trapped in his palatial estate house. She probably thinks she’s there to wash his laundry or cook his dinner. To her horror, this nasty old dude with the fucked-up hair is intent on getting into her drawers. He’s plying her with alcohol and telling her to stay away from the doors and windows and not to speak. The phone doesn’t work either. She doesn’t understand much of what he’s saying, but she’s no idiot. She just came to this country and already Rod is the creepiest guy she has ever met. Her brothers are going to stomp this pendejo when they hear about this shit. Goddamn temp agency. Merry Maids my ass!

Can someone contact the authorities and see if there’s any street urchins on their missing persons list?

Tonight’s the night

It’s gonna be alright

‘cause I love you girl

Aint nobody gonna stop us now

Not even your parents or the cops.

For any die-hard Rodheads or fans of runny 1970s cheese out there, I will concede that “Tonight’s the Night” is catchy, just like herpes. If the rest of you hate me because that horrid song is now stuck in your head, imagine what I had to go through to research and write this article.

In 1975, one year before Rod’s masterpiece, a different tune called “Tonight’s the Night” was released in which Neil Young delivers a riveting, tequila-soaked elegy for two of his buddies who overdosed on heroin. There’s no sex in it, but this “Tonight’s the Night”, howling and bleak, full of ghosts and foreboding, is great art, essential rock and roll and very nearly the polar opposite of Rod’s song.

It was not a #1 single. 

As I walked into the place, I felt like Frodo Baggins far from the Shire. It was a large hall full of people and every man there (as well as some of the women) towered over me. My height is on the short side of average (5’7 when I’m not slouching), but this was ridiculous. I estimated 15% of them to be past 6’2 as well. What the heck? I then realized where I was and relaxed. Of course. These were kind giants, stoned and peaceful. I was at a Karl Denson concert in the Orpheum Theatre, a natural gathering place for the 21st century hippiejock. I was among friends.

The hippiejock (or “brah”, to use the colloquial) is the modern ubermensch, carrier of only the top shelf genes and DNA. The splicing together of two seemingly opposed lifestyles and personalities, the jock and the hippie, and the attempt to focus and amplify the positive traits of each while dampening the negative has worked and I’m proud to number several as close pals.

In contrast to the traditional hippie, the hippiejock is well-scrubbed with neatly trimmed facial hair. They are children of suburbia and have a pretty good grasp on pop culture. If not still in college (the hippiejock’s petri dish) they usually have degrees and well-paying jobs, allowing them to purchase nice new clothes of the outdoor variety and expensive camping/sports gear.

They are physically fit despite the gallons of Fat Tire consumed. They rarely drink PBR and other schwag beer, unless it’s the only thing available. They are able to afford some pretty killer weed and are always willing to smoke you out. They possess very little of the hippiehippie’s natural laziness, with a constant need for physical activity such as hiking, snowboarding, rock climbing, rappelling, softball, jogging, frisbee golf, hacky-sack, mountain biking, skiing, one-on-one, etc.

In comparison to the traditional jock, the hippiejock is way mellower and more in touch with his feelings, allowing for less misplaced what-are-YOU-looking-at pent up anger leading to random bar brawls and spousal abuse. They are politically to the left of the jockjock, with a broader tolerance and understanding of women, gays, and non-Caucasians. They have thankfully little of the jocks’ need to constantly touch other men, outside of the standard brah hug or the occasional shoulder clap. Apparently they have been cured of the repulsive jock habit of parading around the house in their skivvies when loaded (more research may be needed).

Their musical tastes lean far to the hippie side, with barely any of the jocks’ love for heavy metal and Van Hagary “jock rock”, though isolated incidents have been observed. They will have some soul/R&B music, but not enough. And a little too much country. They usually date girls with 90% identical CD collections.

They will participate in spring break and other collegiate functions, but will end up getting laid while you’re covered in vomit and passed out in the surf. They are reliable designated drivers and always make sure the ladies get home safely. They are sometimes involved in weird mind game/athletic prowess competitions with older brothers. By the time you crawl out of bed at noon on your day off, they will have already made coffee, eaten breakfast, showered, visited the library and the post office, gone on a run, and had a beer at Pay-n-Take.

They are comfortable in nearly any social situation and won’t embarrass you in front of new people. They will listen to your drunken blubbering and offer comfort when your girl unexpectedly dumps you. They’ll eventually sleep with her, but not until you’re hooked up with someone else. They will feed you hallucinogenic mushrooms and get you high as a coon-dog on hydroponic bud and then want to go on a 10 mile uphill bike ride. They ALL know how to play “Wish You Were Here” on the acoustic guitar.

Moms love them. Dads too. Your younger siblings will have more fun with them than they ever had with you. Watch your girlfriend, for they are catnip to most women (muscles AND money AND sensitivity? Forget it, Jim). Deep down they are sincerely kind brahs, if a little obsessed with buying stuff. Do not mistake them for hippies, for the jock lieth within. Get them drunk and they’ll soon have each other in wrestling headlocks on the floor while discussing the six Widespread Panic shows they saw last summer.

The first attempt at melding these two disparate cultures was nearly disastrous. In 1987, after a 7-year hibernation between studio albums, the Grateful Dead hit the top ten with the In The Dark LP and the “Touch Of Grey” single and video. Their popularity on college campuses soared, as well as attendance at their live shows.

These were my college years as well. Around this time my friend Paul, an old school Deadhead, took me into his new housemate’s room and said look at this shit: on one wall was a Grateful Dead poster, and on the other a George Bush For President poster. It didn’t make sense, we couldn’t process the absurdity.

By the late ’80s, the Dead had been touring for close to 20 years with a traveling parking lot sideshow of vendors, diehard Deadheads, and assorted weirdos. Most outdoor venues would allow these people to camp out on the premises or in adjacent fields, legally or not. The college kids discovered this peaceful freak scene, declared it party central, and ruined it forever.

Drunken frat-boy mayhem ensued: fistfights, property destruction, and general obnoxious ungroovy behavior. A kid got killed in Florida after a show and Rolling Stone ran a big article. The police, who never once had to patrol these gatherings in 20 years, swooped down and broke them up. Deadhead-friendly places such as Alpine Valley in Wisconsin banned on-site camping. Farmers and land owners began worrying about liability and refused camping requests. The scene died.

The Dead kept plugging away until Jerry Garcia’s death in 1995, but most long-time Deadheads said all the fun was gone from what was left of their scene. But seeds had been planted. Some of these collegiates were enlightened by their experience and became hip to the Dead’s trip. For better or worse, kids were getting on the bus, as they always had. Bands started forming, and strange little pockets of hippiedom were popping up in college towns all over America.

These weren’t Haight-Ashbury street freaks, but the sons and daughters of the well-to-do, on the fast track to a career in marketing or computer programming, until drugs and the lure of this unknown lifestyle permanently derailed it. These kids had never been homeless, never slept without a tent in the freezing cold, never hopped a train, never subsisted on just rice for days, never went without bathing for a week or more, never had head lice or the clap, never been arrested for vagrancy, never been laughed at or beaten up or had a shotgun pointed at them by rednecks, never had a good friend who “just disappeared”, never left home to go on tour with ten bucks in their pocket, never had to take their girlfriend to the free clinic for an abortion, never dropped acid every day for a month, never had to hitchhike or panhandle or go to bed hungry. They were used to having money around.

They absorbed the hippie ethos and transformed it into something new, something their own. The Dead were already old, old, old, and soon they weren’t around anymore. The kids turned to the younger bands: Phish, Blues Traveler, Widespread Panic, etc., and adopted them as the new prophets.

The rest is history.

Brah.

Tucson, AZ—The shocking truth behind the link between dolphin abuse and Thai porn restaurants was recently discovered by Discord staff (quite by accident). I assure you we had no ideas those big black silhouettes of naked women had anything to do with porn. But with this story broke, the staff pledged not to rest until every porn establishment in the city was thoroughly investigated. It will mean long, late hours, with an increased expense budget, but that’s the dedication you’ve come to expect from this group.

We asked Mr. Winslow for enough extra funds to visit every restaurant in Tucson as well, but he didn’t buy the whole porn-restaurant connection. That’s where he was wrong…dead wrong.

Playing porn films in the background while engaged in fine dining is one thing, and usually quite lovely, but when dolphins get involved people have crossed a line that there’s no returning from, at least not without CPR.

I visited, Loo Hung Duk in the back room of his restaurant. While the moans of pleasure and bondage faded into the background, I was brought to the edge of the small dolphin pool he kept in his filming studio. He had this to say in his defense. “Everyone knows dolphins are wicked pissa smart. What, I grew up in Boston. Dolphins, humans, what’s the real difference? One lives in the ocean and has fins… oooooo, big deal. Besides, I think Dolphins are wicked hot.”

Moving closer to the pool he said, “Listen to this. Fah, what do you love best?”

“Fah, love porn,” the Dolphin said.

“That’s from that old George C. Scott movie!” I said.

“Yeah, what about it? I got the thing in a Hollywood auction in 1986. Say you’re a tall fellow and I think Fah likes you. When she balances a ball on her nose that’s a good sign.”

“What happens if she doesn’t like you?” I asked.

“A flipper to the groin, but don’t worry it would have happened already.”

When he told me how much he paid his ‘actors’ (free sesame chicken and all the beer I can drink in thirty minutes) how could I refuse? After all, I do work for the Discord.

So I lowered myself into the pool and Fah started to- (Edit)

After grabbing another beer, I went back into the pool and- (Edit)

Fah and I took the sesame chicken and rubbed it all over- (Edit)

A few minutes later- (Edit) and then we- (Edit) and I finished with a round of- (Edit). (Edit) and the sesame chicken was actually still pretty good. So if this report got to you gentle readers a little late, I apologize, because I’ve been hanging out with Fah a lot. I have never met anyone that could- (Edit) underwater. I might be in love.

All right, honestly she didn’t like me so I speak in a higher voice now, but I did get some free beer for my trouble. And my doctors are hopeful my testicles will descend again real soon.  But, meanwhile, look for our newest videos Better than Mermaids, Behind The Green Aquarium, Deep Gill, Debbie Does Dolphin, Blow Hole Party 4, and My Purple Porpoise, where ever fine videos are sold.

Mrs. Crank has of late voiced an opinion that we should be thinking about getting a firearm for personal protection. My first reaction was to ask, who was she and what had she done with the original Mrs. Crank? Visions of pod people and dopplecrankers danced in my head.

“Wait just a minute,” I said. “I know you. You are the wife that popped up when we bought the big screen TV and you wanted the ‘biggest one that they had’ as I recall. You are also the one that when I asked permission to purchase my very own Cadillac said, ‘It was the fattest-assed most ostentatious automobile I ever saw, so by all means, yes please.’” You are the multiple personality I like best. Please stay a while. Have coffee…

Getting back to the gun thing. As I have a long list of inherited health issues, not the least of which is tremors, the whole gun as a hobby thing was something I would momentarily think about and then envision many injured people within 100 feet of whatever I was ‘aiming’ at, complete with all the associated gore and blood. Then I would laugh and say no. Mrs. C, however, persisted so I agreed to do some investigating.

Everyone said the best way to touch/handle/feel many different types of guns was at a show. As there happened to be a show scheduled at our very own local football stadium/mothership, we elected to attend. We soon discovered at a gun show, cash is king…aka, leave the visa home. It’s useless as tits on a bull.

$17.00 per person to get in.

“Oh, you have no cash? Well there’s an ATM right over there that only charges you your firstborn child.”

Now let’s get one thing straight. This is a gun show in Arizona. I could not look more out of place if I were riding a fucking pink pony and singing Dixie Chicks’ songs. Short, wide, very Italian—with little tyrannosaurus type hands—I was vastly overdressed in my full set of teeth, chinos and golf shirt. As we walked in, my wife said to me it was a little disconcerting to see people all walking around with large firearms hanging from their necks and/or hips. No shit!  As we approached our first of many booths, a tall cowboy hat-wearing dude asked me how he could be of help. As I was about halfway through my diatribe of “don’t know much ‘bout no guns,” he interrupted me.

“I have to tell you sir that you have the accent of someone who hails from a place where guns are not looked upon very kindly.”

This, dear wife, was going to be a LONG fucking day.

He asked me some questions he had prepared for just such an occasion, and I guess I answered them right. He seemed especially happy to hear that I loved the baby Jesus and NASCAR and hated the Evil Obama, and that I felt it was nobody’s business how many guns I had. I had passed the audition with flying colors. Whew, that was tough—especially as I was starting to attract an armed audience. Good thing I didn’t take the Prius. It was like some kind of bizarre game show. “Answer the questions right and proceed with your life.” Double Barrel Jeopardy?

We spent the next few hours going from booth to booth with the wife holding each and every handgun in the place. At one point, she started to repeatedly pull the trigger on one particular gun. I saw by the reaction of the gentleman tending the booth that that might just be just a wee bit frowned upon. I leant over to my wife and whispered, “Please do not pull any triggers, ever.”

“Why not?” she asked. “The guns are all empty.”

I told her that the look I was getting from the guy was making my sphincter clench. I swear I heard Dueling Banjos in the background.

What ended up getting her attention? As we approach a particular booth, I heard the unmistakable sound of electricity arcing. Tasers. She picked one up that said One Million Volts and pressed the button. The sound that erupted was enough to give Frankenstein priapism for a week.

CLZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK.

Instead of being frightened or put off by the loud noise, I could see by her sly smile and the glint in her eye that she had found her protector. I think she wanted to name it. Sparky?

“I want this” she said.

So $40.00 later and a ‘free’ pepper spray and a ‘free’ mini folding knife and everyone was happy. All the ‘issues’ that come with gun ownership were sidestepped, but anyone looking to harm Mrs. C will not soon forget the associated testicle re-ascending experience (TRAE). Look up the term win-win and there is a picture of my smiling bride holding her new friend.

Oh, and I wouldn’t say to her “Don’t tase me, bro” either. Don’t make her angry; you wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.

One of the things I had to accomplish on the trip was an errand for my son. I needed to find a dealer close to my home for him. Two things attracted me to one particular booth. We shared an area code and their sign read:

“Clinging to our God and our Guns since 1979.”

Bingo. Guns AND a sense of humor. Perfect. On the table next to an absolutely evil looking weapon was a Bible. The dark side of me was reeeeally starting to like this lady. But as we prepared to leave, we hit one last booth. As I quickly perused the merchandise my eyes settled on something I was hoping she wouldn’t see…shit. She saw it.

A 38 cal. Sag Sauer ‘Red Lady” hand gun.

You’ll shoot your eye out, ma’am.

It was all pretty in red with fancy white scroll work, obviously made to be noticed by females. And it was. Thank the lord it was $760.00. We took the name and model # for future reference.

What did I get out of the experience? Where there are guns, there are usually knives. I like knives; I worked with them daily for 25 years (pre-tremor years). I saw some beauties too that I might want to add to my collection. We left unscathed and hit the drive through for some Butterburger on the way home.

“Would you like that for here or to go? Hey, is that a Taser? Don’t tase me, bro…(ha, ha, ha).”

“Oh, shit.”

the_crank@dailyDiscord.com

New York, NY—In an unprecedented move, Amazon.com has purchased all the major grocery store chains throughout the United States and Canada. Soon after they will all be closing all of these other companies so that online sales will reign supreme! Many citizens were shocked by this development and became concerned that their family would go hungry, but Amazon quickly reassured them their fear was both unwarranted and unauthorized.

I caught up to Amazon spokesman, William Lynn, and he enlightened me on his corporation’s move. We then discussed, at length, his “why Jesus was a cannibal” theory.

Mr. Lynn said, “Once people adapt to this change, they will fall into a new routine or die, I guess. Zombies, I mean consumers, will just need to figure out all of their foodular needs and order it from Amazon in advance. It will be shipped to their homes in about three weeks. Just think, no lines, no hassle, and less of a carbon footprint. Anyone who doesn’t like this is a nature hater who should be stoned to death for wanting to destroy our planet!”

When I asked him how much weed that would take, he stared and said, “You’ll have to wait until we buy out the drug cartels next month. And back to that Jesus being a cannibal thing, that’s why we are asked to partake of his flesh. Get it? A lot of biblical scholars understand. I think a Gnostic gospel once said, ‘Let there be brains!’ or maybe it was ‘let them eat brains!’—it was something like that. Noah took only two of every creature, so what did they eat on his ark for all that time? What was in surplus? Noah’s kids. Duh. Oh, let’s eat the only two giraffes on the planet. I don’t think so.”

For a different perspective, I discussed this change with a social worker from the Bronx named Belinda Heart. “What Amazon fails to realize is that many consumers aren’t members of PayPal or even have a computer for that matter. Some folks don’t even own smart phones or know how to open email. This could have a devastating effect on those already IBMpoverished.”

Lynn responded by saying, “You’ve heard of Darwin, right? You’ve heard of Gates, right? It’s survival of the techists. They had better step up to the 21st century if they don’t want to eat giraffe burgers.”

Amazon later retracted that statement and replaced it with, “Obama has already expanded his food stamp program to accommodate the technologically impaired.”

Others have voiced concerns as well, such as Abby Arms from the Fitness Impaired Institute of Litigation, Lawyers, Educators, and Defendants (F.I.I.L.L.E. D.). She also works with the Organization of Underachieving Televisionists (O.U.T.). Working together for the first time in history, F.I.I.L.L.E.D.-O.U.T. is taking on Amazon and their e-food challenge.

One consumer said, “I tried this last month but then, on an impulse buy, I spent several weeks eating 31 boxes of Oreo Cookies and 16 cartons of vanilla ice cream. I wasn’t complaining…initially.”

Other individuals and organizations have expressed concern over the foods freshness and have wondered how Amazon will handle postal refrigeration (PF). Amazon told these potential critics to “stop trying to comprehend things they weren’t meant to understand and just watch Fox News.”

Amazon also pointed out how people with lower incomes can buy the Food Kindle, where they will be able to download pictures of any type of food for only 99 cents a pop.

“We should also be releasing a Soylent Green App, hopefully soon. We’re already testing out the prototype in parts of Africa.”

Lynn closed by saying, “Now that we’ve already hastened the demise of such great American icons such as the book, the video, and the record store, the grocery store seemed like the next logical target. Yeah, we already bought Target. After we take over the illegal drug trade, all future restaurant chains and taverns will be online. We have an ale app pending. We also have some lawyers working on making online dating mandatory. Yes, eventually it will be e-Harmony or e-Celibacy. Take your pick. This is an exciting time we live in. Soon the only reason you will have to leave the house will be to work at your jobs, which will allow you just enough money to line our e-pockets.”