The Long, Strange TRIP to UCONN Storrs

This trip look place in 1982 and involved several folks including BB’s suite-mate Kermit (later to become Kermit-the-Frog on the Amtrak train trip) and Charlie the Deadhead.  This was another roadtrip involving the friends of BB but not BB himself.

Enough background…Kermit and I wanted to see the Dead in Hartford for two shows.  We had no transportation and there wasn’t an easy way to get there by train so we decided to hitchhike.  Not the greatest idea we ever had, but it worked out.  We took local transportation to the Mass Turnpike exit ramp with our backpacks and my drugs.  We first got picked up by a commuter he drove us like 20 miles and dropped us off on the Pike.

There was another Deadhead standing there on the side of the Pike and we all were hitchhiking.  This old green Oldsmobile picked the three of us up.  The driver looked about 24 and had an army shaved haircut.  His sidekick, we found out was his kid brother, was in his late teens and also had a shaved haircut.  The guy was heading back to his military base and was driving 90 miles per hour when the speed limit was probably on 55. Then, part way through the trip, the kid started taking traffic tickets out of the glove compartment and announced each one as he threw them out the window of the car.  “Driving under the influence”; “Driving without a license”; “Driving 25 miles per hour over the speed limit”; “Parking in a Handicap Space <on a Handicap person>”.  There may have been more.  In 65 minutes we had traveled over 90 miles and he dropped us off at the exit.  We had survived. Kermit looked freaked out.

No drugs had been taken so far except in between the last two hitch hikes.  We smoked a bowl with he other Dead head.  We decided not to smoke with the lunatic as he was a shitty enough driver as it were.

The other Deadhead got a ride first because he was only one person.  A pickup truck with two Deadheads picked us up; this would be our last ride for the day.  They were heading to the show eventually but agreed to drop us off in Storrs, CT, the home of University of Connecticut.  We sat on the truck bead huddled in a blanket.  We gave the H/W hippies a joint to smoke for their kindness.  I tried to light a joint myself but it was too windy.  After an hour or more, they brought us right to the dorm we were staying at.

Charlie the Deadhead grew up in an affluent part of Connecticut.  His Dad was a doctor.  I think his Mom was too-I am sure BB remembers.  He was Jewish but had a weird drug dealer friend who had a poster of Adolf Hitler and WW II memorabilia in his home town.  It always made me uncomfortable (being born Jewish and all) but he never said anything insulting.  I never understood the appeal-it must have been the roses (the drugs).

Charlie was there at the dorm like he said he would be.  He was reasonable tall, skinny and unkempt, and had a beard and a Jew fro.  He always wore a Dead tee shirt.  He quickly took out a joint and we began smoking it with his friends (who I quickly forgot their names as soon as the words left his lips).  I remember “Murph” because I had met him through BB in Fairdale, CT.  We started discussing the logistics of getting to the shows.  We had tickets for that night and the next night-Charlie only went to the Sat. night show so he remained behind but set us up with his and BB’s friends-remember BB?

When the show was over, we caught a ride back to UCONN and Charlie was there.  We talked about the set list, how we were going to get cassette tape copies of the show, and Sat. night plans.  Charlie looked baked and we had not dropped LSD that night.  We eventually settled down and slept on the floor of a dorm room.

I don’t remember much about the next day.  We dropped LSD (from MIT) and went to the show.  But the real fun started when we went back to this condo.  The tenants were Grad student Deadheads who went to the show and were friends of Charlie.  All of us were tripping on something.  This is the interesting part.  There is a dice game named Cosmic WhimpOut*.  There is a similar game called Dice 10,000 or Ziltch**.  In Fairdale, they played Ziltch as opposed to Cosmic Whimpout.  Tonight we played something new.

There was a dartboard (and darts) set up, a table with 6 dice, and a table with Tequila and shooter glasses.  The idea was to throw a dart (which was presumably scored), roll the dice (which was presumably scored), and then do a shot.  There were like 8 of us all tripping ( I mentioned that already) and we were drinking Becks, the beer of Fairdale.  The hosts were very excited because this had never been done like this.  They were moving out of the condo the next day and obviously were not concerned about their cleaning deposit.

We all fell asleep about 4:30 AM and woke up hung over.  I have no idea how we got back to Boston.  We must have gotten a ride from someone at the shows-I don’t know.

Footnotes:

*The five Cosmic Wimpout dice are referred to as “cubes”. Four of the cubes have face values of “two swirls”, “three triangular glyphs”, “four lightning bolts”, “the number 5”, “six stars” and “the number 10” – the fifth cube, often a different colour, has a single “flaming sun” icon in place of the triangular glyphs.^[3] The general rules for the game have evolved since its inception and there have been various minor modifications made to the colors and patterns of the face designs on the cubes.

**The game requires six standard dice and a pencil and paper for scoring. Each player starts out “off the table” with a score of zero. Players collect points during their turn, and either add those points to their cumulative score, or continue rolling with the risk of losing all points accumulated that turn if a scoring combination is not rolled.

Captain Trips, This Bud’s for You!

Cut title huh?  Here is a link for the music:  https://archive.org/details/gd81-05-01.wise.clugston.2218.sbeok.shnf

It was Friday May 1st, 1981, and the Peoples Express plane was set to leave Boston around 9 AM.  Security was usually piss-poor at the airports so bringing in drugs in the luggage or on the body was never much of a hassle.  This time was no exception.  There were tens and tens of Deadheads with colorful shirts, long hair, and backpacks in the security line.  If the TSA really wanted to rack up their stats, they would have searched everyone on that flight including the babies.  But as usual, it was status quo.

The waiting area for the flight was flooded with Deadheads; talking about shows, eating, drinking, showing each other tapes and set lists, and laughing.  It was not much different from a Grateful Dead show parking lot except there was no cooking or nitrous balloons; or cars/buses.  The Peoples Express staff were trying to announce the flights over the commotion.  Flight number 105 (I don’t really remember the flight number) is boarding for Hampton Virginia (the crowd screamed “Jerry”).  It was about 8:30 AM.  Everyone packed up their shit and boarded the plane.  This is where the real fun happened.

There were roughly 100 passengers; 93 Deadheads, 7 ord’s (ordinary folks) and a crew of 4.  The music was blaring and people were talking and making noise.  Remember that back in the 80’s they allowed smoking on the plane.  This will become important in a few minutes.

The young steward who could not have been any older than 24 began to do “the airbags will drop” rap.  “Ladies and Gentleman, on stage left we have Jill; on stage right we have Mary; and your captain…Captain Trips himself, Captain John Jackson.”  The crowd roared.  Why?

Because Bill Graham once introduced the Grateful Dead the following way:

“Good Evening, we welcome you….on behalf of the group. We should introduce……we should thank United Artists and Mr. Ron Rakow. I should…make it official, Mr. Rackow is the president of Round Records and he asked if I could be here this evening and I said I would like twelve dollars and fifty cents paid at the door. We flipped double or nothing and I won. He wanted to flip again and I won so I am being paid fifty dollars…for being here…I want to thank him very much.

Strumming Starts

On the piano, we have Mr. Keith Godchaux………On the drums on stage left….Mr. Mickey Hart…..On bass and vocals…Mr. Philip Lesh…..bump, ba-bump, bump….on rythyum guitar and vocals….Mr. Bob Weir…..On the drums on stage right…Mr. Bill Kreutzmann….on vocals….Mrs. Donna Jean Godchaux…..on lead guitar and vocals….Mr. Jerry Garcia….Will you welcome please…..THE GRATEFUL DEAD”.

<Ok thanks for letting me have an ADHD moment.>

As soon as the flight crew announced that we had reached 15000 ft, and that it was okay to smoke.  The stewards were coming around to take drink orders, & the bongs, pipes, rolled joints and cigarettes came out.  There was quickly a cloud of smoke that smelled like pot and cigarettes.  The music was loud and there was lots of talking.  I think that we had all forgot that we were in an airplane under the FAA’s jurisdiction.  The Heads started ordering drinks; two at a time.  Remember it was 9 AM.  And not just beers; the hard stuff.  People got louder as they drank-go figure.  And I was no exception-I drank, toked, and talked.  I was wearing one of my best tie-dyes.  I think it was spring break.

At 9:35 AM the steward came back on the PA system.  “Congratulations, this is the first time we ever sold out of alcohol on a morning flight!”  The heads cheered.  Everyone had at least two drinks; well all except the 7 ord’s and the crew.  When we deplaned (what a bullshit word), everyone of us apologized to the 7 ord’s and they all smiled and said they understood as if they wish they could have participated.

We got into the airport sometime after ten.  I got a ride (or took a cab) to the Days Inn.  Now when JN, my childhood friend of 4 years old, told me Days Inn, I naturally thought Daze Inn and thought he was full of shit.  But I had the street address and figured it out when I arrived.  He as there and we smoked a joint and someone took our picture outside of the motel room (I still have a copy).  The picture depicted us smoking a small apple-wood pipe that I had whittled.  It was awesome.

At this point, I could lie and tell you details about the performance, etc. but I won’t.  I do remember, however, when we left the hotel Sunday, that I could not find my $50 Ray-bans.  JN was heading back to school in NC and me, back to Boston.  And that’s the trip.

Eating Woodstock

So we all took a road trip to Stanford CT to see the midnight movie, “Woodstock”.  We took LSD and smoked pot outside and inside the theatre.  The movie was Woodstock after-all.  We were drinking too.

After the movie, we were hungry (making me rethink whether we took LSD that night) and stopped at HJ’s, Howard Johnson’s. The restaurant was empty and there was like 12 of us.  There was a sign on a stand that said “Please wait to be seated”; the flip side was “seat yourself”.  So I flipped the sign around.

The waitress did not like the fact we did this, followed up by our seating ourselves. She made all of us get out of our seats and wait at the sign.  She then sat us down at the same fucking table.  We all ordered breakfast food; I ordered pancakes.  HJ’s food was good and when you’re stoned, you’re hungry.

The Great American Smoke-In

It was 1982 and I had rented that studio slum apartment with the rat above the bar in Boston.  School had just started and it was Sept.  I created a flyer call, “The Great American Smoke-In ” and gave it to my friends, drug customers, and even the guy on SS/Welfare in the first apartment.  Also a couple who were a little biker-like who lived around the corner and sometime hung out in the first appointment.  To my surprise, They were the people who showed up for free pot and booze.  Some of my other friends came.  BB did not show up (not unlike him) nor did PC.  I think that ES must of been there.

BB’s friend from high school was dating this cool guy who had, by far, the best Thai weed that I have every had to this day.  It smelt like chocolate and the buds were long and curved (kind of flat from traveling).  They looked like Zona bud from Arizona.  Another story about Zona bud for another day.

I rolled a joint using EZ wider “unrolling papers”  The bud was 1/4 ounce and I used almost all of it.  The joint was HUGE.  The size of a cigar.  It smelt like chocolate (I know I said this already).  It burned great and slow because it was not too wet nor dried out.  It only cost me $70.  I lit it around two o’clock with the gang from downstairs and ES must have been there.  I think that SA was there later because he brought David (who later sold financial products), and David is who this story is all about.

David and SA came by around 3.  SA left and David stayed to 4:30 PM.  He was a light weight comparatively.  He called me the next day to tell me what had happened to him.

David sat in front of my apartment.  There were two ways he could have gotten home; both about the same distance.  He had to decide to go to the right and walk around the square or to the left and cross the bridge.  He sat there for an hour and a half counting the steps (in his mind) for each way.  He was trying to figure out which way was shorter.  He accused me of trying to kill him and this would not be the first time someone has accused me of this.

Jerry Garcia in Palo Alto in 1983

DG and I cruised down from Santa Cruz to catch Jerry Garcia (my God died in ’95!) in Palo Alto.  We had one ticket.  DG went in and got his hand stamped-it was a bar.  He rolled his hand on my sweaty back of hand and it reproduced the stamp and we went in.  At one point, we were sitting under the front of the stage and Jerry was right on top of us playing.  I had rolled a LARGE joint of Santa Cruz outdoor.  We were smoking up a storm.  I don’t remember but I think there was no smoking allowed.

The smoke was going out and up and hitting Garcia in the face.  A young security guard caught us and said we either give him the pot or leave.  I took a long slow toke and blew it into his face.  DG was laughing (and we were stoned).  I handed him the joint and he walked away-The fucker smoked it with a deadhead chick, still in our sight.  And yes, he was a real security guard.

 

What the Hell am I Doing in Road Island?

My Mom always had different ideas on how I should spend my summers.  Some of them good and some bad.  This wasn’t one of the good ones.  It was summer school in Georgetown RI and I was like 14.  Maybe 15. 

The kids were really stuck up and I had to take classes.  I had already broke my pot cherry and had had some follow up drinking.  I had my guitar and small batter powered amp along for fun.  I did not know anyone.  But I remember two people off the top of my head; Michael, a Jew from Skokie IL, and a Portuguese who’s name escapes me-let’s call him Joe.  

Michael told me the story of the Nazis marching in Skokie and everyone throwing bottles and Molotov Cocktails (they sounded like what Jews drank to get drunk).  It sounded like fun.  I had already created the Christian Killer in art class (DG was there and it was in 2nd grade) with Alan Ginsburg (no, really).  It was a crayon drawing and we were pissed off about the Holocaust.  I was pissed off at God and stopped believing in him, but I digress.

Michael, Joe and I had fire extinguisher battles in the dorm halls and launched water balloons with sling shots.   (Yes I am getting to the drug part; I am just giving you some background).  We did other thing that I have since forgot except for the drugs.

The first weekend, Sat. Night, we followed some older kids into the woods.  They had cases of beer and homegrown pot.  We smoked and drank and made it back to school unscathed.  The next day, however, we found out that David was caught being drunk and was expelled.  They did not even wait for him to be picked up by his parents-you are out of there pal.

We went into his room looking at his stuff-he had a big poster of Hitler on his wall.  He was a white racist bastard.  He trashed the room and his Mom, who came back to get his stuff, wasted her time.  We also never got to go out for the rest of the summer on Sat. nights because of him.

So we found a bar down near the beached that served food and had a pool table.  We all smoked cigarettes.  While they wouldn’t serve us beer, they let us hang out, smoke and play pool.  Many happy times. 

Later on I found out that the guy who had the ice cream truck sold joints for a dollar, I was never so lucky…

Want to Try Pot?

OK, DG and I were best of friends growing up in upstate NY.  We did everything together.  He was an artist and I had untreated ADHD (ADD).  DG had an older sister SG, who I had a mild crush on but she was like 3-4 years older than us.  Once in a while she would play tag with us or help us in one of David’s crazy Super 8 movies.

DG had a small wood pipe and a plastic film container with $5 worth of gold pot.  He explained how getting high worked, and what to expect.  Sounded good.  So when his Mom (who kind of reminded me of Betty Boop at the time) and his step Dad left for the evening, we went to his back yard (the uphill lot was vacant) and he filled a bowl of pot.  My eyes widened.  I took a few tokes and coughed.  It wasn’t like today’s pot.  It was a bit harsh.  We both laughed.  I did not get stoned (but he did), but I did get the incredible munchies and we ate 2 large bags of chips.  We laughed a lot when his Mom and Step Dad returned.  It was the next time we smoked that I got STONED for the first time.  Another post.

Why I Created This Site

When I stopped smoking pot, I realized there was a person buried under all that weed and wax.  Before you stop reading and switch to another blog, hear me out.  I did it.  Believe me.  I did it.  Of all of the Pot Heads, I was the the last one smoking.  I dealt and keep my friends and strangers high.  I can guarantee that you will find my postings at the very least entertaining.

I can honestly say that I won’t post everything and I could never run for president.  I won’t tell you much about myself other than I am middle aged now, still love the dead, haven’t smoke in over 80 days, having had a drink in over 8 years and make the same decision everyday-not to smoke or drink.  It has been easy.

When I quit pot, I started remembering my dreams.  So what did I do?  I started emailing them to people who were in my dreams.  My brother told me that I should write a journal, so in fact, this is my journal.  The stories, for better or worse, are all true although names and certain other things have been changed to protect everyone.

So enjoy…take a puff or a Dab, pour yourself a nice glass of tequila, and start reading.  If you are a member of the Wharf Rats who are a group of concert-goers who have chosen to live drug and alcohol free, welcome. I  will look forward to your comments.  I’ll not only read them, but I will remember them too.

Wishful Drinking at Age 13

I am not sure this was the first time I drank; but let’s start here.  It was the 70’s and I was at my cousin’s Bar Mitzvah party.  His brother will later be a major influence in my life as a Grateful Dead Head but I’ll write about that later.  My cousin (the 13 year old) had a party on one floor; the adults were down stairs and the older brother, John the Deadhead, was on the second floor patio with his friends, a keg, and I am sure pot although they at least hid that.  But the keg was PBR and I kept my glass full.  I had about three beers and was DRUNK.  I was around 125 lbs back then, maybe even a little less.  This was the first of many drinking experiences.  I must have liked it because I drank for the next 40 years!!!!