Grateful Dead

It's the early 90s (I think) at Denver's old Stapleton Airport. I'm in line to lovely Newark, NJ, where my parents lived. (They were died-in-the-wool New Yorkers, RIP. I was born in Manhattan.) The guy in front of me is bald(ing) and his head has a slightly familiar shape. Discreetly, I glance at the tag on the attache case in his hand: "Hunter S. Thompson, Doctor of Divinity."

A couple nights prior, HST had been on David Letterman (whose assinine schtick I never liked, but HST is on, you know?) and HST talked about covering the Pulitzer divorce trial in Miami, where high caliber fireworks apparently are readily available.

HST comes out, unsteadily, with his lit cigarette in its holder and a small colorful box in his hand. He settles in, Letterman asks something stupid and HST manages a mumbled grunt, then something akin to "I've been up for days, not entirely here, not well..." Letterman leans in theatrically, as HST's mumble is not made-for-prime-time. And HST places the maybe four-inch to a side box on Letterman's desk, within HST's reach. That's when I notice the fuse. While HST mumbles under his breath, Letterman is hamming it up for the camera, like "Can you believe this wack-o?" Meanwhile, HST slowly, casually, extends his left hand, with the cigarette, to the fuse. The distance between the lit cig and the fuse is closing. Letterman looks over just in time and uses his Johnny Carson eraser-at-both-ends pencil to scoot the box just out of HST's reach. Maybe, at this late date, I'm only imagining a subtle smile creeping over HST's face. Maybe, more likely, he's completely deadpan.

Fast forward a few days and HST must have flown from NY to his home in Aspen, Colorado, then appears in front of me in line to go to Newark. I say, "Pardon me, Mr. Thompson, I'd just like to say that your appearance on Letterman was pure genius. You were so close to lighting that fuse. And Letterman is such a phony schmuck." HST turns, again that almost undetectable smile plays over his mouth. "Yeah, Letterman's a dick," he mumbles. Or something like that. So I said, "Whatcha doin' now?" "Pulitzer divorce trial for Rolling Stone in Miami," he says under his breath. "That's cool," I say. "Why are you flying to Newark?" "NEWARK!?" he says, "GODAMMIT! I'm going to Miami." I said, "Oh, over there, that's the line for Miami."

HST mutters "Thanks" and shuffles off to another line as we began boarding for lovely Newark, NJ. And I'm left to wonder what it would've been like to be seat mates with HST for a several hour flight. (I was holding materials for use in the airplane bathroom.) May lightning lay me low if I lie. Best I can do ~30 years later.

Ah, the beauty of random encounters!

Sheperdz pie?

Nick1234 - your'e lucky you've still got one - that is one of the shops that has closed round here over the last year or so. Come to Lowestoft - an emptying town center full of boarded up shops. Book early.
I think the risks associated with eating Shepherds Pie are a bit exaggerated. Unless of course you happen to be a lamb. In which case you're screwed.

Thinking of American poets over the last 50 years makes me realise how old fashioned I have become. Both Raymond Carver and Denis Johnson have written poetry, but it tends to be their short stories or novels that I have enjoyed more.

Any recommendations for American poets from the last 50 years? I love American fiction but I'm not too familiar with much relatively recent poetry.

Acoustic guitar, piano, bass, drums, a nice flowing, picky electric guitar style, Jerry McGee or David Lindley say, and a vocalist that can actually sing. Any suggestions?

DaveRock, I shop at Tesco's, is there something I should know, does that mean I haven't got long left? I do like a decent Shepherd's Pie though, but having a vegan wife it's a rare treat.

and rock all night!

He also had access to the best Shepherds Pie. He wouldn't have lasted this long if he'd shopped at Tesco's.

2 11
5 23
etc.

We all need more GD69, Dave. MORE.

Liiiike..

MORE.

YAAAAHHHHHOOOOOO!

I believe Keith Richards is still with us for a number of reasons, one, good genetics.

Also, by his own admission he had the cleanest of drugs, the finest Merck pharmaceutical cocaine and ultra pure, clean heroin. Not sure about all the dirty Jack Daniel's and Marlboros though.

Plus, he has lived like royalty for the past 50 years. He's Keith f-ing Richards! He calls the shots. Other than that Toronto bust, I doubt he stresses very much. Always seems like the genuine real rock n' roll article to me.

God Bless Keith Richards, Jack Nicholson, and Hunter S. Thompson. They just don't make 'em like that anymore.

\m/

Formaldehyde, proudfoot, formaldehyde....

Imagine the scene, a few billions years on, when the Earth plunges into the Sun, and KR is the last man standing, waving his hat like Slim Pickens in Dr. Strangelove as he rides an H bomb to its target....