It all started a couple of weeks ago, when Shewho and I were invited to attend an evening's worth of cerebral infotainment at our friends' cult over across the river. On the bill were three old friends: Jacabor Kaster, Mark McCloud and Chuck McC. The subject of the evening's lectures by this bunch of esteemed elders was art and drugs. Our hosts were Alex and Alyson Grey, two of my favorite wacky, mind expanding proselytizers of the "new" age. We all go way back. So we caught up, had a bite and then settled into our folding chairs, for the evening's enlightenment. It kinda felt like the 21st century version of a 19th century salon......only without the morphine and absinthe.
I admit it, except for hunting, I have a short attention span. Half way through Alex's introduction I was glazing over. Then he delved into his and Alyson's work and Albert Hoffman, and Terrence Mckenna, and etc. and etc. Let me reiterate I love these people, but they are all nuts. McCloud showed bad images of blotter acid with bed music and never took the mic. It wasn't too long. I give it a C. Then came Jacabor. He started with an illegible image of a hand drawn map, of some sort, for making "psychedelic art". An hour later he had yet to move on to the second slide. When asked by the host if he had more slides? He replied "Sure. I have plenty more. How we doing on time?" I could only assume the full lecture would take a week. He was Fidel Castro wrapped in Andy Kauffman- without the humor. I give it a E for endurance. Finally it was time for Chuck. He was professional, concise, engaging and quite informative. A Dash Snow piece sporting a line of coke around a record album called EAT SHIT AND DIE was my fav. I really want to criticize him but can't. He gets a B plus. If he had killed Jacabor and Mark he'd have gotten an A.
I came home to a message from Teddy R who lives in Laguna Beach, Ca. Four days later TR was in my living room, having driven across the country listening to whale music. Teddy is famous for welding brightly colored rocket ship bombs on sign posts all over Manhattan in the 1980's. If he tried it today he'd be shot. I hadn't seen him in a while. I think he needed a break from the wife and kids. In less than a week we smoked a shit load of pot, spread what was left of Jerry William's ashes, saw fireworks, he got sick, and then got well, helped me fabricate (and paid for) SORRY- cut out of 1/4 in. steel........... and never stopped talking.
On his last day here, he accidentally spilled a glass of ice tea into Chuck's computer, frying the fucker. Cossacks raping the wife and kid would've been preferable in Chuck's eyes. Poor Teddy was crushed, of course offering to help replace the beast. But Chuck was so distraught he couldn't eat, nor smoke, nor drink. He crawled up in a fetal position on my couch, only after informing me that I had Horror vacui- the fear of open spaces. I erected GABRIEL today. I fear no space. Safe travels Mr. R.