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Willie and Waylon and Some Other Guy: A story about weed, marriage, and Texas tall tales. Part I

I like telling the story of the time we went to Telluride with my brother David to catch the Bluegrass Festival there. Dave is a pretty dang famous fiddler, and this happened 13 or 14 years ago when his Freight Hoppers were riding a crest, having two then current Billboard Top 20 Americana list releases on Rounder, (Rounder is pretty much a ripoff, but thatís for another time). The Freight Hoppers were hot in Colorado, and their set would draw some 30, 000 festival-goers, with a respectable bevy of hairy Deadheads looking for an outlet following Jerryís departure bouncing , flouncing and working their little Tai Chi dance up at the stage. Lots of really notable musicians liked them, too, and still do, actually.

Anyhow, we would meet up with Dave and the band at the festivals after winding through a long cattle-line setup, to get to the will-call desk and pick up our magic-rainbow all-access wristbands and hang out all weekend with all these niche-famous musicians, eating, drinking, being merry, smoking, and playing music together. That shit is great!

So one day weíre back stage chilliní with Tony Furtado, (hi Tonyórock on!), and someone goes, ďIs that Johnny Cash?Ē and sure enough, the Highwaymen had showed up to play an unscheduled set. We never made it away from whatever we were doing at the time to see them play, but not long later, as if they had come for no other purpose, Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson show up looking for my brother to tell him how much they dig his music. How cool is that!? Well, we all got to jawiní, and knowing a little about Willie I pulled a little fairly decent weed out of my pocket and offered it, but Willie said, ďOh, no thanks, son, put that away,Ē and busted out some G13 mutant weed or something, and sparked the stoniest joint Iíve ever smoked in my life, to this very day. What a day!

Now, Willie has always been a hero of mine. His heroes have always been cowboys, he says; mine have always been outlaws, and I always figured Willie for a true outlaw, to the core. I mean the guy runs for president on a platform built of pot smoke, with Ani DiFranco as his running mate. Go Willie! Thatís why some things heís said lately trouble me. Iíll get to that in a minute but the first order of business here is to retell that story one more time, (not that I wonít tell it againóitís a great staple of mine at parties and such), and to let you in on a secret: Itís all bullshit! It never happened!

***

I am a teller of tall tales, a spinner of yarns, a slinger of bool-shyte. Thatís what I do. Iím gonna do some now, here; itís my schtick, and folks who know me will instantly recognize some of the regular phraseology of my everyday standup, right here on the page. Hi Tim! Hi kids! Hi Willie! Some will recognize little inside tidbits and feel special. Theyíll pick out my little eddies and anticipate how I circle back around myself. Hell, if youíre reading you might just as well go ahead and start feeling all conspiratorial and special right now. I mean, this is certainly not USA Today. You can pretty much count on being in an exclusive number by this count.
So if this is a bit of improv by a bullshit artist, how do you know this isnít all bullshit right now? Iíll let you in on another secret: it is! Thatís rightóitís the Lying Cretin. Everything I say is a lie. The Lie is truer than the Truth. Willie and I will be burning one in Austin when I make it down that way in a few months and weíll laaaugh and laugh about this whole thing, because he gets it, you know. This statement does not belong in the set of all true statements.

Wrap your head around that a spell. It canít be done. And no side-winding tap-dance involving imaginary words likeĒpseudo-statementĒ allowed, either. This is True Lies. Itís a breakdown in reason, a blind spot in our panoramic window to Reality like that thing with the dots you learned in elementary school. You can not manipulate the notions here to fit your mind, though you may, just maybe, be able to manipulate your mind to fit the notions. OK, so Iíll admit we canít prove the magick here, and maybe someday some mathematician will build a technical ladder up and out of GŲdelís pit, but, we canít prove a negative, right? But letís see ya prove that. And now follow it back to the beginning of this paragraph, the beginning of this rant, the beginning of everything youíve ever read, heard, saw, sensed felt.

And, lo and behold, you find yourself ďpoised on the wave of explicit Presence, the clockless Nowever.Ē But donít forget what kinda bullshit youíre reading.

(Reprinted from Hipgnosis)

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