The Worst Sort of Rude Fuck that ever Existed, and Peace to Good Men

Picture this amigos: front row in a tiny Chicago venue (think Fillmore pre-globalazation) with the one and only Dandy Warhols blasting tits within kissing distance; oh the shock and terror that rang through our souls and swam in our veins. Sweat poured from every gland that night for each member of the crowd,  and the madness that fouled every corner and crevice of the room was both contagious and overpowering. Moments like these, where a man  finds himself totally lost somewhere between pure awe and the sudden awakening feeling that comes from a good ejaculate dispensary, were hard to come by those days and I remember this one well. Exhaustion and booze riddled anxiety brought us into a crowded house. Luckily my friend Chuck’s and my own meandering skills, along with some pot, brought us to the front of the house next to the worst kind of acid head there is. Talk about a catch 22.

Typical types of sons of bitches often cross my path. HE had a particular type of top hat, and appeared greasy and slime-filled from my initial inspection. Ganja, officer. We talked loosely amongst our new crowd, and within the context of our drug jargoned speech, the slick character overheard our discussion which probably featured an utter disregard for the law and all “social” conventions of church and state (fuck separation, who needs either of ’em really). We were defenseless, and this sick individual was prowling steadily in our direction. If the crystal ball would’ve told me sooner, we could’ve avoided this strange interaction altogether, but perhaps it was good for both of our heads in the long run.

“E-bombs, anyone?! Are there drugs anywhere,” I yelled unabashedly towards the rear of the crowd, making my head and my intent known in every direction. “Fucking anybody seen Dig, is there no snow for the mountain climbers!”

No one knew what the hell I was screaming over. Except him. “Yeah, acid hits.”

Immediately, out of both me and my associates mouth flew, “How Much?”

“20 bucks,” he shuddered and looked sketchily over both shoulders. I hated dealing with conspicuous black men and dirty looking smack heads. He might have been the culmination from both of those classes worst evils. I glanced quickly at my associate and began to fumble with my wallet as should be done in any drug transaction to buy time. Any idiot could buy dope at a show, it was about getting away with the score.

“Naw man,” he laughed and turned away. What the fuck? Who, why, what? All the major journalism questions popped up and slapped at me relentlessly. I had a gamut of responses at this point to choose from, and I’m glad in hindsight that I was not completely drunk on whiskey at the time. Things would have gotten worse in a hurry.

“What kind of shit eating lawn gnome move is that,” I muttered towards Charles. He looked at me in a way that indicated his deepest sympathies. Oh well, the show’s introduction was within the hour and we still had time to find more brain busting chemical cocktails for the affair. We were two very Gatsby, very southern gentlemen representing the scene that night. Things were expected from us. No beating up of junkies or searching violently in the shadows for dark longings and midnight passions.

The night was remarkable and the set list was quite entertaining. The Dandy’s were well known by us at the time, and I hope they felt acquainted with the mad men of Chicago screaming in hoarse overtones for “Big Indian” at the end of a two hour too long set that night. Mahalo friends, and good tidings for Christmas and the weekend football picks. Bears Monday Night mayhem? Cutler’s redemption? Favre’s silencing? Really, who cares? Enjoy the love energy of close one’s and sing songs near pine needled tree’s. I will smoke and think about life.


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