by Dave Cohen
In looking around a recent JGB (it used to stand for "Jerry Garcia Band," but now that he's dead maybe it stands for "Jerry's Gone Bye-Bye") show, I was awed by the multitude of short, pudgy, bald losers in the crowd, all of whom resembled either Uncle Fester or David Crosby the time he cut his hair (no almost about it) in between prison terms. I thought that perhaps I should be more wary of a club called "Ziggy's," but then I realized that my glasses were simply smeared from the rain (yes, Jerry-heads, my Mission In The Rain was to make it to the show) and that all those bald fat men were actually rather lovely women. Maybe it's good when things aren't as they seem.
Then again, maybe not. Anyone hear about the Beardstown Ladies (who don't sing "doo dah, doo dah," even if the local racetrack is five miles long)? This is the group of little old ladies from Middle America (picture Middle Earth but with scarier inhabitants) whose stock picking acumen is surprising not because one assumes that Middle Americans would be better at picking noses (not necessarily their own, mind you) than they'd be at picking stocks, but because these little ladies seemingly produced higher returns than did the big boys of Wall Street. Well, even shrewd septuagenarians aren't what they seem to be. It turns out that the Granny Gurus of the Green are more like the Clumsy Clods of the Calculator. By flubbing a digit or two in their calculations, they turned below-average returns into astounding success. I wonder if I can pull that on my tax return?
From Clumsy Clara we move rapidly to Slick Willy (which I think is a British brand of KY jelly). I don't know about KY, but the man from AK seems to be having severe troubles with both his willy and his Willey (unfortunately for him, never the twain shall meet). I think it's a great improvement when we have a president who seeks to fuck only select Americans instead of fucking over all of us, but many folks seem to think of Clinton's lack of resistance to lovely women (his excuse: they look like David Crosby to him, and he just has this thing about "Long Time Gone") as evidence of Clinton's overall tastelessness and stupidity. How bright can anyone from Arkansas be, though? After all, these are people who stole and mispronounced another state's name (early state motto from which the name sprang: "Aw, hell, this is Our Kansas!"). And, no, I'm not worried about offending Arkansas-ians, mainly because most of them can't read this column. In any event, the big Bill likely will wind up visiting the Beardstown Ladies, seeing what they can pull on his tax return for him (and possibly propositioning them to pull something else as well).
To avoid the media circus surrounding the president's peccadillos (one circus where parents have to wonder about the head clown inviting kiddies to check out his "big tent," as it were), I've turned to the far more serious affairs in today's news: the annual entertainment award presentations. The Grammies don't do much for me, probably because I never did get the hang of the metric system, although this year things got a tad wacky. Regardless, I still prefer the Oscars, likely because Oscar the trophy probably belongs in the same place as Oscar the Grouch. Unlike the Grammies, this year's Oscars featured no soy bombs exploding onto the stage nor any disgruntled wrap artists (as in "that's a wrap") snatching a mike during the presentation of the award for best Key Grip (I prefer the thumb and forefinger grip myself, but I don't carry a lot of keys), emoting about the injustices of not winning an award. Instead, it was just the stars trembling with apparently genuine (do actors ever stop acting?) joy as they accepted their awards. (I once trembled with Joy, but I wound up spilling the dish detergent all over myself.) I think I'd tremble with more joy when accepting a typical star's paycheck.
I'd say that's just the way I see it, but when David Crosby/Uncle Fester lookalikes turn out to be pretty women, my blind eyes just ain't worth a damn. Instead, I'll just sign off by saying that I'll see you all at Merlefest later this month. I'll be the one getting my ass kicked by a bunch of Arkansas travelers (and giving extra credit to everyone who gets the preceding bluegrass pun). Anyone not inclined to tread where the grass grows blue can simply shoot me an e-mail at blindI@mailcity.com. Watch out, thoughI shoot back, and my aim sucks.
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