Something In The Air Tonight

The Rocky Mountain Power Jam
Friday,June 25, 2010
Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom
Denver, Co.

Colorado, specifically Denver, has been embroiled in an ever-evolving, ever-pretentious and quite entertaining world of medical marijuana laws.  I'm not going to make a case for total legalization (of any illegal substance) or the further decriminalization of maryjane (not to be confused with the ski resort) or the sudden onslaught of "medicinal" shops selling meds.  I'll leave that to the legal system and voters, which means it'll be an issue til h-e-double hockey sticks freezes the puck.  Laws, by-laws, previous initiatives, present interpretations and the mumbo-jumbo of legalese all contribute to this controversy.  I believe that people with legitimate illnesses should be able to acquire, acquire and not distribute, distribute medicines of all flavors.  I also believe that the natural means of treating these people is a good thing.  But say that to a pharmaceutical giant, such as Pfizer.  Being on manufactured drugs is designed to keep a pained patient comfortably numb, but as an innocent bystander with but one script, my opinion is only that.  An opinion.

In the last two years or so,  Denver has been in the eye of the storm concerning medicinal pot.  A sudden surge of pot shops, caregivers and doctoral prescriptions of questionable origin have all contributed to the confusion surrounding past laws and future laws.  Legal or illegal?  The people who are caught in this vortex of legislation are the legitimately afflicted.

With that being said, my wife and I went to the 7th Annual Rocky Mountain Jam which consisted of a conglomeration of talented bands.  Saxophone giant, but small in stature, Karl Denson (he of Karl Denson's Tiny Universe), keyboard/vocalist Ivan Neville ( he of Dumpstaphunk and family member of the renowned Neville's), members of Lettuce (Eric Krasno,guitarist of Soulive, one of the best jazz/funk/jam bands according to me) and a supporting cast that just blew me away.  In this cynical age of new bands and new music, these guys (and one gal) proved that the old-school of James Brown, Sly Stone and Parliament is still around and being interpreted and updated.  This posse of musician's musicians blasted the funk that stunk.  Stunk in a great way.  The show started at 12:00 am.  As in midnight.  We had to pace ourselves with naps, a  protein-fueled meal and coffee.  We arrived an hour early to see what was happening and maybe nab a good table.  A DJ was dj-ing us with James Brown, Earth, Wind and Fire and Michael Jackson.  Why the late start?  This was an after-show of Widespread Panic at Red Rocks.  Busloads of fans from The Rock arrived and proceeded to dance the night away.  We were part of this party and we didn't stop phunking till it was over at 3:00 am.  With a permanent gigundo mirror ball taking us back to the '80s with a '00s vibe, sweaty 20-somethings mixed several intriguing odors.  Axe body wash, patchouli perfume and skunk.  Lotta skunk.  Thick waves of skunk.  Stinky skunk.  Everywhere.  Lighters lighting.  Burning.  Everywhere.  Unabashedly and blatant.

I have been to a couple of concerts in my life and, of course, experienced the skunk.  But I never, never, ever was so inundated, so enveloped by the full, rich skunk as I was this night.  And I am thankful it's not cig smoke anymore.  A long, strange trip indeed.  Spliffs, pipes and green script bottles were passed around as if candy.  Eye-popping and eye-watering.  I don't know if you, the bloggee, has smelt, felt, seen or indulged in med herb, but the contact high alone was, well, uplifting.  Constant foot-shifting, whirling and twirling dervishes of skirts and shorts and constant inhalation/exhalation.  And the band played on.  Crunch funk, tight crushing grooves of blasting drums and bass, guitar solos and keyboard with wah-wah and various tricks, kept the tunes flowing.  Quite a display from musician's musicians.

My ears are still ringing today.  My mind is a bit cloudy (nothing new there).  My musical fix sedated.  My dream last night was a strange one.  Musket (he of Good Earth Records, see my post 'Get me to the show ontime') was smiling at me and unveiling a CD case full of music and presented it to me proudly.  "These are for you, Alto."  I thanked him and he vanished in a thick fog of a, smoke machine?  And how appropo was Taylor Hicks ( yes, American Idol!) absolutely killing (in a raving, rocking and grand, guttural way) a funk/rock cover of 'Medicated Goo'?  Medicated.  Yes, very.

I Just Want To Celebrate

"Celebrate celebrate
Dance to the music"

This past Father's Day, it hit me.  Every living, breathing organism on our planet, and hopefully on others, has a mother and a father.  Sure, there are those species that have both sexes (that must be quite the party) and some that don't have a sex at all (so sad), but I shall concentrate on the Homo Sapien, as that is the one I'm somewhat familiar with.

There are the cynics amongst us that feel some of the celebratory days are just a way to promote commercialism.  And I agree, some are.  But keep it to yourself because plenty of people enjoy these days.  Don't piss on their fun.  So with that being said, I have compiled some obviously silly "Special Days".

Caffeine-free Week
This one might require non-caffeinated friends and family (is there anybody over the age of six like that?  Really?) to have their phones on speed-dial for 911.  Without caffeine, they are way too slow.  Originally I thought a one-day celebration.  Nah, too easy.  Then a two-day.  That should be a piece of cake (just say no to coffee cake).  How about a whole week?  I nervously reached for my coffee cup and kept thinking.  But why, Mark, a whole week?  Then it dawned on me.  The whole commercialism thing.  Another chug.  From a devout caffeine creature, I knew, this would be hard.  But the rewards.  The outrageous cost of coffee these days is staggering, especially to an 8-10 cup-a-day drinker.  And the tossing and turning at night when you just had to have that eensy, teensy cup at 7:30 pm.  And not to mention what Starbucks charges.  And the jitters.  The rewards are plentiful, my fellow addict.  Chug.  Of course, it shan't be easy.  Be strong.  The headache that will inevitably come will feel like an aneurysm on steroids.  The ringing in your ears, your temples exploding repeatedly and those strange visions of Juan Valdez.  Sip.  The next six days will be a lot easier.  It's all psychological, anyway, right?  Mind games, yes?  We really don't need caffeine, do we?  Beat it back.  And, oh, the celebration at the end of the week.  A parade will be organized and quickly.  Chug. Sip.  Hopefully, not a rabid crowd clamoring for a latte, but a laid-back party of celebrants who came together for a single cause : just to say we can.  The parade should end up at a Caribou or Starbucks with the masses taking over, free espresso, make mine a triple, out of my way old man, chug, that frap is mine, I need more whole milk, damn my coffee's too weak, where's that triple espresso I ordered 30 seconds ago?  And choosing the week for this celebration?  I'll think about that after I grind some beans.  Sip.

Nothing Special Day
Celebrate the mundaneness of life.  Again. 

Colonoscopy Day
Party on this occasion for the people who get to go back in 10 years, starting with 10 candles and working down.  Just so you remember.  If you are unfortunate enough to get this procedure done more often, eat the high fiber cake.  And that cake should have pictures of this memorable day in chocolate.

No BM Day
Of course, this will probably follow the above "Special Day". 

Greeting Card Day
Sponsored by Hallmark.  That's all I can say.

Rest Your Right Eye Day
Think about your eyes for a moment.  They are always on.  Even while sleeping, they dance the REM.  Take a break.  Depth perception is compromised, but are you a professional baseball player?  I didn't think so.

Just Say No Day
No.

PMS Week
Oh wait, it's called hell week.

Talk Like a Pirate Day
There already is one?  AAARRRGGGGHHH.

Make up your own "Special Day".  And enforce it.  Remember, people love to celebrate no matter what it is.

 

And That's The Way It Was

Growing up somewhat sheltered geographically, actually really sheltered, and in a simpler time, finding something to do was somewhat of a challenge.  So, we did some harmless stuff, mainly to ourselves.  Every small town (and I've been in quite a few) is like an enclave of cliques and small, social networks.  Some were renowned for the dastardly stuff and others were pretty tame.  Guess which group I was in?  Now, I have been called a Pollyanna, by some unmentionables, for my writing on this blog.  And I admit, I do write PG rated stuff (fluff?).  I have been lucky by not being in the wrong place at the wrong time very often when I was growing up.  However, some crazy/dark moments have occurred.  That strange, dark side is on my new blog entitled 'The Dark Side and Underbelly of Alto'.  Catchy, huh?  It's still in the preparation stage.  Until then, on with the mostly PG fluff stuff.

Did you ever get to go to a Sadie Hawkin's dance in high school?  This was designed by some female, I would guess, so that the girl who never gets asked to a dance, gets to do the asking.  How original and uncomfortable.  The boy usually says yes to a complete anti-babe just to be nice, then drops her off immediately after the dance (the scoundrel), proceeds to meet with a friend (another scoundrel), party until light after drinking a ton, driving up on sidewalks, getting stuck in somebody's front yard, knocking over a few mailboxes and generally making up for a terribly annoying dance.  Shame on you, Joe A. for making me so rowdy.  I guess I had a little to do with that, but remember, I am Pollyanna.

Before we had our driver's license, we needed to stash our booze (purchased for us by an older scoundrel) for a later, more opportune time.  Surrounding Lincoln School was a nice secluded patch of woods that we called, The Woods, or something like that.  There were so many of us, that finding your personal stash was totally by accident.  If you didn't, then whatever you found was yours.  Being chased by some irate, PBR-loving, misfits was pretty invigorating and stomach-jogging.  This was the first place that I experienced The Puke, or something like that.  Wines ( I use the term loosely) such as Annie Green Springs, Tyrolia, Boone's Farm and the nefarious Mogen David 20-20 were within my price range : very cheap.  If you haven't experienced MD 20-20, this fine-dining wine, I highly suggest it.  It came in a couple of enticing flavors.  Puke Grape or Golden Apple Puke.  Both totally appealing to the rot-gut in us all.  We had a very intricate process for drinking this crap and it seemed to work.  The quart held about four large glasses, so the first was the most important.  It was the most foul-tasting, bowel-wasting, butt-basting liquid invented by some scoundrel.  After that, you were home free because you couldn't taste the next three glasses.  Your taste buds were totally annihilated as the rest of your body would shortly be.  MD 20-20 made your eyesight 0-0.  Since those early drinking days, I have found only one other drink equally nauseating.  Half shot of Jaggermeister.  Half shot of Goldschlager.  Voila!  You have Black Gold.  Just thinking about it gives me a headache, hangover and the strange need to vomit.  Damn, those Germans are good.

Cruising had to be popular wherever there was a patch of asphalt.  And over-hormonal boys.  With wheels.  With booze.  And loose girls.  Howard Street and 1st Avenue formed an 'L' in our downtown, which used to be a part of the interstate highway system.  After the 'Beltway' was built, which diverted traffic around the downtown like a belt holding together the ever-expanding girth of our fair village, this 'L' was about 20 blocks of department stores (Feldman's and Monkey Wards), theaters (State and Libba), pizza joints (Sammy's), gas stations/auto body shops (John's), all-purpose (Woolworth's and Five-and-Ten Cent) and a whole slew of dive bars (Corner, Coachmen).  Gas being around 35 cents (gasp), driving up and down for hours on end wasn't a big deal, even with the gas-chugging muscle cars.  Showing off these cars, showing off girls in these cars and the relentless pursuit of instant gratification, was the thing to do.  "Hey, party at McCarthy's Beach."  "Bimbo's at midnight".  Even in the harsh winters, "Dupont Lake.  Bring the Ski-doo and a case of Hamms."  This was some of the most carefree times a kid could have.  And driving drunk?  Most, not all, are here to tell you about it.  I do have to mention a bittersweet memory, one of the few.  Driving or cruising the drag was sometimes void of exhaust and cars and friends and chicks and mayhem.  Where is everybody?  Am I missing something?  Did I forget about a kegger somewhere?  Is everybody dead?  And where the hell is Terry G. with my MD 20-20?

I wasn't into drag-racing (being a Pollyanna and all), but our town was overrun with gear-heads.  One casual friend ( weren't we all?) had a yellow Dodge Dart with a thick, black-belt painted vertically around the rear panel or trunk area.  See?  I can't even describe it in a studly way.  It looked like a bumble-bee.  Is that better?  This wrenchie said the engine was factory, but even a powder-puff like me knew, after the first rev, that this was huge.  He had a running bet.  Anyone able to reach out and grab a $20 bill taped to his dash while going through the quarter-mile, they could keep it.  If not, you owed him the $20.  Bold.  Cocky.  He let me try it for free.  You know, wimpy and all.  When he tromped on the gas, other than the startling, jet-sounds that deafened me and the fuel smell, my head and body were pressed into the seat with a snap.  I reached out.  Chirping second gear drove me back.  A beer can wrapped around my ankle.  I tried again.  Third gear and now eyelashes quivering and tears (?) running, I reached.  The $20 was just laying there, fluttering, asking to be ripped off the dash.  Fourth gear and rubber-fumes or something else burning (was that hair?)  The quarter-mile was over.  A backfire sounded.  Then braking.  I looked over at my friend and he had this look that I'll never forget.  One of pride.  One of confidence.  One of a bullshitter.

I'll have to say, and coming from a crotchety old Iron Ranger, you can take this any way you want to, those times I hold dear to my heart.  Ones you never want to let go of.  They were filled with pure, childish joy, wild imaginations, smells, sounds and feelings of something that has passed.  But is still there.  To hear.  To smell.  To feel.  It was great to be alive then and there and it sure is great to be alive here and now.  Without the memories (or the forgetfuls) we have nothing to base ourselves on.  Wherever you grew up, however you were raised, whenever it was, do not forget.  Remember.  This is coming from a Pollyanna.