Parrothead Ramblings

Jimmy, doing what he does best, on stage at Cricket Pavilion.

Another Phoenix show is in the books, and what a great time! Now, I know you can get lame concert and venue reviews from all sorts of wannabe Rolling Stoners.What you really want is to know who fucked up, who sprinted, and what debauchery took place, right?

Used to be, they didn't bother opening up the lot until 5:00PM. This year, it opened at 1:00PM. Shwing! The Crime Dog pack showed up around that time, shark fins and Conch Republic flags slicing the breeze. So, I pulled up in my classy little white and red (it was, after all, a Ragtop Day)to the gate, $10 bill at the ready. The Security Babe pronounces her admiration of the car, and says "go on in." I say "How much do I owe you?" She says "Nothing. I like your car. It gets in free." What a sweetheart! I thank her heartily and go on in. Of course, that's when I find out they're not charging anybody, and my chain just got yanked. WHAT? I begin looking around furtively once again for those telltale signs that hell has just frozen over. I don't know what they are, but I think I'll know them when I see them.

So, we set up and started the marathon. There was only a handful of pholks there when we arrived, so the security weenies had nothing better to do than wander around reciting the cardinal rule: If you're going to drink alcohol (who, me?), it cannot be in its original container. Huh? Who makes this shit up, anyway? So, I tell the guy "Fine. No problem." I take a huge swallow from my bottle. "See? I'm pouring it out of its original container, and in to its new container: my stomach. Might take a couple minutes. You wanna hang around and watch?" Dude was not amused.

With my act already wearing thin on the beer police, we proceeded to amble on over to Macayos to get some grub and hang out with our AZPHC phriends. That was fun for a while, but then things started getting sketchy. The place got crowded, and then they started getting pissy about which doors you go in and out of, checking ID on a guy my age, wanting to put bands on me and other horseshit that just annoyed me. When a Maricopa County Sheriff's unit camped out in front of the place, we checked out and headed back over to the parking lot.

By then, the lot was jumpin'! The beer police were busy trying to find their asses with both hands while 10,000 Parrotheads wandered around swilling from original containers, so that little problem went away. The "people watching," as always, was superb. We found a few sprinters rapidly approaching the finish line by 6:00, with an 8:00 show time. Most remarkable was a guy wearing a white sport coat, with pink crustacean sticking out of his pocket. The guy was about old enough to have been a permanent remider of a temporary feeling about the time that album came out. Liking his outfit, I engaged him in a brief converstion:

Crime Dog: Hey, like the sport coat and crustacean there, big guy! How you doin'?

Crustacean Guy: NNNgh hhmfl begotyr.

Crime Dog: Yeah, it is a little warm for April. Having a good time?

Crustacean Guy: Kjhytgmbl mrrrffles bitolmurd.

Crime Dog: Give me your fucking ticket. You'll just be passed out during the show.

Crustacean Guy: Frtylk puwuygrt! Hbegle nnggghaaa!

Crime Dog: OK! No offense intended! Have a nice nap/puke. Which is coming first?

Crustacean guy: NNnnnddddd ddddunnoo.

So Crustacean Guy gets an official Crime Dog "Parrothead Sprinter" award, suitable for framing. I have one for that Carl Lewis asshole who puked and passed out on a Phriend's blanket up on the lawn, too. Oh, and lest I forget, my good phriend the Golf God himself was very close! I didn't see him after the show, but he was within striking distance of the finish line at intermission, when I last saw him, and he had a full beer in each hand. I'm guessing he finished just under the wire with the help of The Fetching Golf Goddess, but I'll keep an ear on the Coconut Telegraph for final details.

There was also that drunken slug who had a sneezing fit all over the railing, thus smiting me with his viscous and disgusting overspray. Oh well, at least he was sneezing instead of throwing up. I got that going for me.

But of course, the biggest fuck-up of the night belongs to one and only one person: The now-unemployed pinhead technician who forgot to turn on Jimmy's mike when the show started. Of course, in his usual amiable and fun-loving way, Jimmy started the show by welcoming the crowd, shouting "___________________________!" Once the laughter subsided, he came back with "___________________________________?" "_______________________________________!"and broke into a rousing performance of "__________________." My favorite verse is the one that went "______________________________________iece of wo-o-o-o-ork!"

Doesn't matter, a good time was had by all. Well, except for the really accomplished sprinters. Oh, and feel free to hit the "comment" link below, and make your own nominations for the Crime Dog "Parrothead Sprinter" award. Or just Email your nomination to me. Details are important! The Crime Dog is here to help.
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