Bastard Son of the Grateful Dead
I go to Johnny’s Bar to drink and listen to the jukebox. Johnny’s Bar is in a strip mall sandwiched between a barbershop and vape store. It’s not much: beer, bar, pool table, mega touch machine. There is also a great jukebox that has some sweet Grateful Dead jams on it. It is my favorite jukebox.
So this jukebox only plays compact discs, it’s not a classic juke or anything. It’s actually a big, awkward, ugly, stupid, crappy, cheap, CD playing piece of shit jukebox from the 1990s that has Live Dead and Europe ’72 on it — and this makes it the best jukebox. I drink at Johnny’s Bar to listen.
Now on this day, when I drop a few quarters in the box and fire up Saint Stephen, some fucking guy at the pool table makes a noise like he just got a cue stick rammed up his ass.
“Not this incessant, aimless claptrap noodling,” he says, “fuck this hippy shit!”
He starts going on and on about how bad these guys suck — shit harmonies, out of tune guitar solos, veggie burritos, hairy armpits, rainbow-colored tams, Guatemalan fanny packs, Sam Boyd Stadium, touching grey... My brain is frizzing out — BZZTT ZZZRBT — my back is getting raised — [Hulk Smash!! ]— this fucking guy is ruining Saint Stephen, man!
Now listen — I don’t like fanny packs and I wouldn’t be caught dead in a rainbow-colored tam. I don’t have a problem with hairy armpits or veggie burritos or touch of grey. And sure, the harmonies can be shit, but isn’t that part of the charm? Seriously though, the guitar is good. No, no, yeah, this gets me pissed, it’s not out of tune, no — one man gathers what another man spills... This is a good jam! Definitely not out of tune.
Sooo I go over to the pool table and tell this fucking guy that I am not some goddamn hippy and he needs to shut the fuck up. He laughs derisively at me and I take this as a sign — a sign that this guy needs to get shown the light (in the strangest places, right?). I smack him upside the head with my 16 ounce plastic cup filled with Schlitz on draft. I like Schlitz.
“You spilled my beer,” I say and then I push this guy as hard as I can away from the pool table toward the bar. He seems surprised and he trips, falling awkwardly against some biker dude sitting at the bar eating wings and drinking shots.
“What the fuck?” says the biker dude and he starts wailing on this fucking guy — I mean wailing on him as in beating the shit out of him! He is kicking this guy’s ass. All the while, that fucking Stephen jam is segueing into The Eleven and it is on fire! The place is getting hot! The bartender points at me and shouts, “YOU — OUT!” I beg her off for a minute, long enough to hear those vocals come in, and then I leave.
Later I have a dream — it is 1986 and I am at my first Grateful Dead show. I eat too much acid and see snakes all over the place. I somehow make my way toward the front of the stage. I can actually see the band — Bob Weir has these shorts on that look like his balls are falling out. Baby snake? Holy shit, put some pants on, Bob! And what’s up with Phil? He’s got his t-shirt all tucked into these ratty sweat pants. How gangster is that? That is fucking punk rock, Phil! Jerry is looking good. He had just come out of a diabetic coma at that point, and as Mickey peers down at me from his monster drum set I think he looks kinda like my Dad. I ask him, “Dad, why are there two drummers?” The entire crowd erupts as the band falls into a sweet version of Bertha and everyone sings, “I had a hard run…”
I wake up in a cold sweat. My wife wants to know what the hell is going on, I’ve been acting weird ever since I got home from the bar last night. Tonight we are headed to Marin to see Bobby play with the orchestra. “Don’t fuck this up by getting sick,” she says. “We already paid for the babysitter.”
Bobby with the orchestra is kinda fun — not enough guitar but still a good time. They open set two with Playing in the Band and I am fucking stoked. I look excitedly at my wife, oh yeah!
“I never really liked this song,” she says, “too much jamming.”
My head explodes all over the place. Qwwwhhhaaattt? That’s the whole reason we are here.
“This one is a little cheesy,” she says.
My head seriously blows up — blood and brains are smeared and scattered throughout the aisles. No one seems to notice, the orchestra keeps playing. “Some folks up in treetops…”
“This really could use a lead guitar,” I say to the random stranger next to me. “Do you have any mushrooms?”
After the show, we are in the parking lot and I think I see a familiar face. Wait, it is a familiar face, for real, not just some face you see at a Grateful Dead show and you think it’s someone you know but you’ve never met them before in your life and you really have no clue who they are. And as we get closer, I no longer think I see a familiar face, I know I see a familiar face, and I know who it is — it’s Mickey! He’s moving slyly through the crowd like a boss and he’s headed directly toward us. Closer, closer…
“Hey, Mickey!” I shout. “Can I get a picture?”
“Uhhh no — I’m just headed to the car,” he answers before disappearing back into the crowd.
“Who was that?” my wife asks.
“Dad!” I say. “Did you see that?”
“That wasn’t your Dad,” she responds with a shrug. “Are you okay? Did that guy really give you some mushrooms?”
When we get home I fall asleep on the couch. I dream of dancing bears and Europe ’72 and Johnny’s Bar — the same bartender is there as the night before and when she sees me, she shakes her head and says, “YOU! OUT!” But I can’t leave because it’s my dream. She laughs when I tell her this and we smoke cigarettes and listen to Sugar Magnolia again and again and again.
