As part of my ongoing commitment to the ‘counterculture’, which is an increasingly meaningless word, I went to the open mic at the Vapour Lounge.
It is called ‘upstairs’ on the sign. What it is: a place where people can sit around and smoke pot. There is no alcohol. Just pot. Acres and acres of skunk, trees, ganja (which you have to bring yourself, which I didn’t). Acres of pictures of pot, pot smokers, political posters. One said, When the laws are unjust, protest becomes a duty, and so I thought about a hubble bubble in Egypt, or Bahrain. I saw a vaporizer with a ten foot tube, which was mind messing. Mostly I listened to the live music, which was heartfelt and not particularly memorable tunage about pot. Yes, yes, hemp will save the planet, but if you love the planet so much why can’t you tune your fucking guitar? I left when an AMPLIFIED harmonica player got up… the room is about the size of a basement. Are all young folks deaf? Or is it just a particular form of inadvertent hubris that fuels a belief that your harmonica stylings will be better at heavy metal volumes? Jebus halpus, it was horrid. My companion referred to it as ‘mental floss’; I kept reflexively putting my hand up to my ears wondering if I was bleeding or not.
BUT, and this made it all worthwhile, I got to watch the world’s chillest feline jump up onto the Prince of Pot pinball game and survey the scene. Long time readers may recollect when Dr Filk was working for John’s Jukes he got to haul the Prince of Pot game (some other game repurposed and repainted to be a special gift for Marc Emery) up three flights of stairs and set it up. We sat there soaking up some blues, reggae and folk, and then took off when Mr. Harmonica started excavating additional holes in my head. I will retain the memory of looking at the machine with the cat on top, which Dr. Filk would have absolutely loved, had he seen it.
I thought, I must have a tune for every occasion. I’ve written songs for funerals (Filker’s Farewell), kids’ songs (the Tickle Song), protest songs (Sick of the War, One Black Man, You can’t write a protest song in 3/4 time), love songs (Bruise), science blues (C19 H28 O2), standard folk (The Evening News), filk (Just Call me Clem), arena rock (She), DIY (Brew Your Own), fanfic (Lady of Komarr), instrumentals (Willie’s Lament), etiquette (Miss Manners has her Say), bluegrass (Load on), gospel (Not afraid to Believe), country (Buy me a Beer), Zombie apocalypse (Here They Come), National Coming Out Day (Come out wherever you are), Work (Short, Company Dump), pirates (the Pirate’s To Do List), vacations (I’ll do Nothing…), mental health (Snow, the Cairn), assholes with style (All the Con Men I have Known), polyphonic four part songs (Time to get up), and full on My Mandolin Wants to Be a Bass Guitar songs (Spinal Clinic). I think I could write a song in any genre, given sufficient motivation. And I’ve written a pot protest song, although the pot part isn’t as important as the rest of the song, which is really about intersecting privilege, and how it always makes for war. This is where my thinking loops back to what was happening outside of me.
On the way home his bro said, “I don’t think I’d be able to play anything at the open mic, I got no pot songs.” He and I had been sitting there with the big “old folks watching young folks have fun” smile. We were there maybe an hour and a half.
I looked at him as if he was nuts. “Uh.” I said. Then I began to sing.
Think about a reefer
Five feet long
Not too hot
but plenty strong
You’ll get high
but not for long
if you’se a viper.
I remember singing that with Paul and Dr. Filk, and sometimes the memories are sad and sometimes glad.
Keith said, “Somebody pulled the pin on the crazy grenade in Libya” last night. That boy is so funny.
This morning I made sausages, cut up melon, Finn pancakes and coffee for breakfast. I think I’m supposed to be at a church meeting right now but I can’t get hold of any of the people who could tell me.
