LawnMemo

The Daily Ghost

21 in 21 of 2017: #9 07/25/2017 Madison Square Garden, New York, NY – Baker’s Dozen N4 “Jam Filled” (@JesusHSchvice)

 

….la la la la la la la la Soul Planet! Doo doo doo doo doo Soul Planet! … oh hello – I didn’t see you there. I’m Lot Jesus. Piece be with you? How about some papers? No worries I have some dank tide stick (tide pods tied to a stick of nag champa).

*lighting wrong end of e-cig* ok where were we? Ah yes, open your Helping Phriendly Books to page 69 and get on your knees to look for some ground scores, it’s Lawn Memo time!

I first met brother Memo back in the Old Testament (1.0) at bible camp (me reading meearf and phuckchristy tweets at wooks on SPAC Lot) where he would not shut the heck up about the Holy Spirit. Boy does he love a nice Ghost. Here’s what a young Memo looked like before I plastered his helmet with heady stickers and told him about drugs and respecting women:

He used to be such a nice boy. He used to cut the lawn. Now I only hear from him when he needs floors or his bong water blessed. We did have a successful lot partnership for a moment with our $1 water / $2 wine scam. And the time we went around selling “platinum” lawn seats. So when my beeper went off I knew he must need something. Stocking up for tour, I figured. Nope. He wanted me to write about my favorite band. Joe Russo’s Almost Dad?!?! No. Phish. Oh. Well they’re cool too. No good weed goes unburned so I agreed to write a little story about my experience at last year’s Baker’s Dozen.

Jam Night.

I got dropped off at the Madison Rhombus Garden by my friends in the 12 Twibes Van (not to be confused with the narcs on the 12 tribes bus) and they went off to find affordable parking in New Jersey. I am quickly miracled a floor, as is the custom. Good friends, I’ve got. Good friends are the ones that stick around after the buzz wears off. The rest are just hallucinations. Good friends sticking together is not just a side effect of the glue sniffing. Before this run of shows I thought my friends were the only dozen I’d ever need. Boy, man, was I wrong.

Outside the city streets were alive with hustlers, yuppies and spunions. A melting pot of ambition and sloth. You could stir the broth with your finger and rub a little on your gums to really get a feel for the vibe. My teeth were shuffling sockets in my mouth. It’s pure. It’s hot as hell. I would rather listen to Big Boat in a Hampton holding cell than spend one more minute in this heat. I float past security, parting the sea of custies flocking the merch table for magnets and monogrammed vape totes. Honestly, I would buy a Phish lunchbox or sleeping bag or sheets if I had a bed or money. Merch was better in the 70s. Somehow I end up at the front of the line to tower D.

D is for donut.

That donut is mine.

I start a “DONUTS! DONUTS! DONUTS!” chant in the line. Security guards begin tugging at their collars and coiled talking devices. The pressure builds. “DONUTS! DONUTS! DONUTS!” We are now a mob. My work here is done so I stagger over to Tower C. “WE HAVE NO KING BUT TWEEZER!” It doesn’t take much to get the rabble roused. The wooks gurgle in chorus as if Pilate himself were about to free Barabas. Finally the gates open and we politely surge forward in single file, smiling and acknowledging the efforts of the veteran ticket scanners with thanks and praise. Did you hear the “Wolfman’s” from the other night, Gene? I ask the 65 year old eyeballing my ticket. Melted my fucking face LJ, says Gene. We high five and I turn the corner only to witness an angel literally multiplying sweetened bread treats for the masses. It’s the Donut Queen. My god she’s glorious. I want to throw a tarp on her and defend her from the encroaching wooks- GIVE ME A DONUT- I try to take two but she swats me away. Angels are as smart as they are pretty. I put the donut in my sock and save it for later. I can see myself in a fried chicken sandwich…

Now it’s time for my pre-show ritual where I retire to a bathroom stall for more sacraments and ten Hail Jerrys. A helpful bathroom attendant warns me that this particular bathroom floor has flooded with water but that’s not a problem for me lol I walk right on in.

The toilet seat is colder than a nitrous nozzle. I send bae a few Dick’s Picks (vols 10-15 on FLAC) and fire off a few tweets and I’m ready to find my spot on the floor. My spot on the floor is usually a spot that someone else is not already in.

Now, when brother Memo hit me up to review this show he asked me to pick a specific jam so I picked the only jam of the night I remember seeing: “Sample”.

Phish took the stage and opened the show with “Sample”. On Jam Night. “Sample”. My buddy Chillwig turned to leave the show but I grabbed him and said hang on buddy let’s hear them out. He muttered something about bacon onion jamming better when all of a sudden something happened… “Sample” stopped Sampling. I wheeled around and heard one of my favorite moments in all of Phish history. Jample. “Sample” took a hard and unexpected turn for the heavenly at the 3 minute mark and we are hearing something incredibly special and brand new and wow this place is going bonkers realizing the prophecy of Jam Night has been so utterly fulfilled. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick I am vibrating with so much Love and Light. Turning my face upward and I am gob-smacked. Is that… is that manna from Heaven??? No, it is baked ziti and blocks of parmajawn cheese being hucked at us from the expensive seats. No time to try to understand why the fuck that is happening as the literal heavens above me begin to part and now I’m levitating upwards into the all consuming sky. Shit. My my my my my soul is leaving my body…

I hate when Phish does this. Look, these guys are blessed. God (short for Donna Jean Godchaux) smiles upon them. Phish were bestowed with an Almighty power to jam with their combined musical creations. They need to be more responsible. Music is the most powerful force known to mankind, next to Love. When Phish decide to flip a switch and literally open gates to heavenly realms this early in a show it kind of fucks with my metaphysical make up. I wasn’t ready. One minute I’m losing my holy shit to Jample and the next I’m teleported into what sounds like a snake pit gun fight. Hiss POP POP hissss POP. How did I end up in Nitrous Alley?! Did I faint? Did I die? Am I in hell or just another k hole in the addicts of my life? This city will devour a small-town cross dresser like me. Multi-colored balloons litter the pavement as far as the eye can see. Forgive them, they know not Morning Dew.

The show has apparently ended and I can see my body wading through the crowd toward me. We transmogrify. There’s a donut in my sock and I share it with a squinting girl who is having a hard time standing up. I suggest we sit down and she asks me if this is still “Lawn Boy”. It is. She smiles while chewing on half a jam filled donut. Life is good.

 

More about LOT JESUS aka Jesus H. Schvice:

Christ, you know it ain’t easy. You know how hard it can be. The way things are going, they’re going 2 for 5, b.

 

 

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