Archive for the 'drugs' Category

Bad Bromine. BAD!!

It was a moment of great hilarity.

“John?” the kid Bobby asked. John was my organic chemistry professor. Back in 1999. Each day at the beginning of class John would entertain questions. Bobby always came prepared with several. Some were good curiosity-driven questions. But this one he asked as a joke.

“John,” Bobby famously asked. “I heard it negates all hallucinogenic effects if you add Bromine to a molecule of LSD!”

The kid sounded pretty excited.

“Ah, Bobby.” John’s eyes filled with suspicion as he looked at his student. “Why would you DO such a thing??”

The girl sitting next to me shit her pants and nostril snarfed her feces.

John Hayes is widely regarded as the best o-chem professor in collegiate history; truly a cult legend in circles where such an accolade matters. His class had a certain atmosphere, a magic rarely experienced in college science departments. It was fun.

Now this kid Bobby was, on paper, the smartest kid in my college o-chem class. Bobby always scored real good on his tests. He father was a medical doctor and Bobby clearly had been groomed from birth to follow in his footsteps.

On paper I — a high school dropout — was the dumbest kid in my whole darned o-chem class.

Our professor, John, taught organic chemistry in the same classroom for 3 decades. Each day he walked into the room. Entertained questions. Then picked up a lone piece of chalk, turned to the board & got down to Business. Amazing. John knew his business.

He taught his year-long class with no text book. John copied his personal notes on to the chalkboard directly from his brain. These we dutifully transcribed to study for exams from. The final exam — in May — was a 6 hour affair which covered material we’d copied into our notebooks the previous September.

On the first day of class John shared with us an insight into the precise nature of his business. Why he was in the business to begin with; on the first day of class John told us why he taught organic chemistry. And I quote — he said he “liked to warp young people’s brains.”

Unquote.

WhoA!!

I was pleased as dosed punch to hear it.

To my mind warping young people’s brains is a solidly exceptional want. I wanted to be like my organic chemistry teacher when I grew up; matter of fact I still do. John took the place immediately as and remains still one of my very few “wanna-be-like you when I grow up” Heroes. And a good one. Good heroes are hard to find. So John, if you read this: thanks for being my hero dude.

I was not there to be groomed for medical school. It did occur to me that once successfully completed the year long class would satisfy the science requirement which, still incomplete after 4 full years of high school, prevented me from being awarded a diploma. But that’s not why I took organic chemistry 10 years after the fact. I was there for my own solidly exceptional reasons.

To figure out about what all those drugs that have slogged benevolently ’round in my brain since way back on Grateful Dead tour — what were they up to these days?

I mean can you scrape them out somehow and you know like smoke ’em dudes?

Way.

Tao Way!

DUFF Custiez!!

The dedicated auditor learns all material presented in the class syllabus. Does the homework. Gets tested & graded. Suffers at times mightily to gain the proffered knowledge. But at the end of the day is rewarded no credits toward matriculation for the effort.

People said I was crazy doing what I was doing. The biology professor oddly suggested that auditing classes was like trying to kiss my sister. I guess he meant like: “What was in it for me?”

Knowledge. To a degree that you can’t get in college.

Moreover it was my smashingly good fortune to learn from John Hayes; a once-ever Welcome To Planet Earth experience. In it for me? Well I got my gad dang brainz warped up good! I got higher than a dosed bowl of punch.

Higher than drugs kiddoz!

I know, I know! I sound like a god damn old lady. But I tell you this: if I (of all people) say it “Got me higher than drugs…” you can bet I mean it as no disrespect to Drugs personally. In fact it maybe did not get me Higher than a particularly excellent drug at its’ experiential peak. But the ochem class “Got Me High.” I felt high from it when I woke up every morning. Plus it was cheaper & lasted longer than any drug you can buy off the street.

For Disclaimer’s Sake: “Higher than” is in no way meant to imply “better than” drugs; in fact higher than drugs veritably begs to be made better still with a giant pot of Alien Turdz tea.

shroomz.jpg

John once saw fit to explain to the entire class that Bobby wasn’t as smart as he looked. Rather, he was very “tenacious with his question asking,” John said. The question-answer process solidifies parcels of information in the mind. When we form our own questions we engage a personal relation with their answers; a deliberate act of internalization.

Anyway that’s what John said Bobby had going for him. He came across as the smartest kid in the O-chem class because he asked a lot of questions. At times it seemed that Bobby hoped to quixotically topple the long-stood notion that “There are no Dumb Questions in a class like organic chemistry.”

No dumb questions, maybe. Sometimes Bobby asked smart-aleck questions he’d contrived to elicit a chuckle. Like the one about what happened when you added a bromine to LSD. But by no means was he the Class Smart Ass. There was only one Class Smart Ass. Was it me? Oh hell no. The class smart ass went by the name professor John Hayes.

So. If John was the Class Smart Ass. And Bobby wasn’t all that — then who was incontestably the smartest kid in the class?

Well first off: how could such a thing be quantified? Who would know?

“You know Mike E.” John assured me once, years after I historically aced his class. “You’re gifted. In fact after 30 years teaching that class…out of ’em all you are my organic chemistry Standout.”

“But I mean like I’m a total fuck up John!” I protested.

“Then you’re the most brilliant fuck up I know.”

Swhoosh.

Hunter S. Thompson himself could not pay me a more giddily meaningful compliment. As meaningful — yes. Like the compliment Jay Herron left me in my comment box yesterday. Such moments of synergy are what keeps the artist categorically addicted to our audience. And the chance that one may see fit to tell me I’m All That — as John did — has long kept me addicted to my many heroes.

It twisted an earlobe to earlobe drug eating grin on to my face for weeks.

And begs the question: What did Bobby the bastion of o chem mediocrity know about a drug we’ll henceforth call Lucy?

By all outward appearances…Nawt Shey-it. As they say with drawls in Memphis TN. Or as it’s put in these parts: Not a damn thang!

In any event he clearly did not know as much as me. I mean I just kind of look like I’ve spent most every minute of my life blasted out of my brain on drugs. Like Wile E Coyote wakes & bakes when he rolls out of bed each afternoon — on a good blast load of TNT.

Bobby most likely never tried Lucy. Definitely he never got high with a little bangin help from Wile E & TNT.

He just said it to be funny. All eyes turned to John. Who smashed the joke pitched him by Bobby so far out of the park it rained 6 packs of 802 Woodchuck hard cider & Chivas Regal in tall rocks-filled glasses. It was the most gigantically funny moment organic chemistry has ever seen.

Yeah & I was so there dudes!

So what’s the big deal? I tell you what the big deal is. What’s the quantifiable difference between Bobby & me? Between folks of at times notably above-average intelligence — and the singularly sharpest mind John Hayes observed over the course of 3 decades of o chem teaching experience? I mean what sets me measurably apart from the Others?

Alien Turdz mostly.

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thank God for cops.

I dosed up some acid one night last summer. I was in Brooklyn. Funny story that goes along with it: I’d completely forgotten that I even had the stuff. The cops found it for me.

I had just wandered — absolutely innocently — through the city housing projects in Brooklyn’s Red Hook neighborhood. The projects just happened to be in between where I was and where I was going. But when I turned the corner I encountered two plain clothes NYPD detectives who assumed a white boy like me must have been in the Projects for drug related purposes.

“Whatcha got?!” They demanded.

“Nothing.” I said.

My smart ass was sorely tempted to follow my response up with a question, along the lines of:

“Why — do they got some Good Shit in there??”

But I held my tongue. A wise move? Perhaps. Though it went against my Policy; to fuck with the police in any way possible as long as I got nothing on me. Still, I felt vulnerable — being a country boy homeless in New York City — and smartly fearful of the NYPD. So I asked for directions to Van Brunt street and left it at that.

They gave me directions but shook me down first. An almost empty bottle of Sweet Breath “mouth drops” was uncovered while they ripped through my bag. The cops thought nothing of it but — wearing my best poker face — I was all thinking, like:

“Woo HOO!!

For once! There’s actually a cop around when you need one.

A couple hours later — near sundown — I was kicked back on the grass in this bad ass little waterfront park in the same neighborhood. Digging this view:

red-hook-statue-of-liberty.jpg

Awesome dudes.

The red ball of sunfire sank low over & then directly behind Lady Liberty’s torch.

Way awesome. I popped the top off my Sweet Breath vial. Poured in some water. Swished it around to dislodge whatever dose molecules were clung stubbornly to its’ side. Deposited the contents into my mouth & swigged them down the hatch.

It was a powerful brain whack. I tell you that.

Too powerful — for most people. That’s why the stuff is parceled out in hits maybe a tenth of the size of the one I estimably took.

A powerful brain whack; especially for a good old boy from Vermont — way out of his element wandering the night away on the streets of Brooklyn. Homeless. Utterly penniless. Unable to afford those distractions — ie BEER!! — so critically essential to the Drug Cosmonaut who needs, in cases of Brain Emergency, to reliably return to Earth.

The escape hatch as it were.

I had none of these things. Not even a cigarette. And anyone who smokes them knows how crucial they are when you’re tripping.

I am a daredevil. What can I say?

One thing I did have was a Friend. That helps incalculably. A friendless man may be forever lost. But Absynth Eve was with me. We were living in her car. Actually it wasn’t her car. It was an inadvertantly stolen Toyota Prius hybrid — but that’s another story.

Absynth Eve is about my best friend on all planet Earth. But it happened that on that night — she declined to trip with me — Absynth Eve was so entirely sick of the very sight of her best friend that I, for most of the night, was shall we say excused from her stolen hybrid car.

You’ll unavoidably have that when you live with your best friend in her car.

I wandered the streets alone. Far, far gone out of my skull on no less than 10 solidly potent hits of LSD.

It was the kind of trip that distinguishes the casually suicidal — we who may occasionally consider taking our own lives for pragmatic reasons — from someone who truly wants to scale a 5-story building then jump off head-first and die.

I obviously fall into the former category. But I guess maybe I wasn’t sure — and it’s good to know. For that reason the Trip ranks among my more productive drug experiences.

For most of the night I amused myself by looking for hundred dollar bills on the ground. No $20’s, please. Um-k? I’m too broke to find a twenty dollar bill! Hundreds only.

And I was amused. What the hell? Here’s what life is to me: I make stories. I listen to stories. And I tell stories. Now obviously I hoped to tell you guys the one about the time when I found that loose Hundie floating down the street in Brooklyn. But I tend not to have that kind of luck.

But again: what the hell?

Hunter S. Thompson about once wrote something smart about his Hero:

Muhammad Ali was not a lucky man. He was Fast. Very fast.

I slurped in a gigantically pulsated breath of New York City air. Scanned the pavement. Shrugged my shoulders & sighed.

And wished I had a frikkin cigarette!!

I tried to bum one from strangers all night — to utterly no avail. Until morning, when I passed a man who’d just stirred from his slumber. He was still halfway under his blanket. Outside a church, where he’d slept on a cardboard box.

He was rolling a cigarette out of a pouch of Top Menthol tobacco. Cosmically fine luck; Top Menthol happens to be my 2nd  (after the more costly American Spirit menthol) favorite brand. In fact I am smoking one right now, out of the pouch that Absynth Eve just sported me $1.26 to buy from Wal Mart.

Trouble was he did not want to give one to me. Why should he? $1.26 is literally a lot of money to a homeless man. I asked. He shook his head no. But took a closer look at me, and by my grungy appearance he concluded that I was homeless.

Then he let me roll two.

the Hybrid Thief

Some static started
In the pool hall

Hit
A motherfucker’s FACE
Wit’ D Q
Ball!

Then I met this girl
she
Tried to gank me
Says I got to buy her lobster
Now
Since she took me Bu’ger King?!

So I smacked her in the booty with a plank bee

Then me & my
Crew
Were out breakin

Windows

Play the Daily Double
When I know who’s gonna win
Both.

Cause you know I love to win
Love to win
Love to Love

To Win Win

Whoa!

Possession
is half the law
I had my routines
Before all ya’ll!!

You’re whole life is coming
Apart
At the seams
You ain’t nothin but a Car Thief
Bitin Routines.

Yeah I’m a city slicker
I ain’t no Townie

As your next President I
Solemnly swear
To spike a spansule of Dexedrine
Into every Hash brownie!

Better Run
Dick & Dubuya
You Better Run
Fast.
Beatsie Boys gon’kick you’re motherfuckin
Asses!

Cause you took what isn’t yours
Like two-bit tyrant rats

Another Stop Loss
Soldier
Killed
By a road side blast.

Yeah & leave it to
Democrats,
right?
They made it worse!
Got our hopes up
& let us down
Now my feelings
are Hurt.

That’s why
I speak on behalf
of America’s youth
When I tell the Democratic party
to go eat a douche

Cause that’s how they roll
that’s how they like to snack
Now now it’s good to recycle
Plus there’s zero grams of fat!

See. I,
I personally
I wouldn’t even wanna Go Out Like that!

I’m a writer. A Poet.

A genuis.

*takes bow*

I don’t buy cheebah
I GROW it.

People always trying to
Get next to me.

I had a beautiful experience on Ecstacy!

Cooked up a breakfast
Batch
Of kitty cat tranquilizer
Turn the party
side wayz
Cause
We couldn’t go no Higher.

Now
my brain is drool
Roley Poley mush
Had to snort some crystal meth
Just
To stand up

Toot a straw load of
Ha Ha
On the Casey Jones mirror
Voice of Reason
Begged me not to
But
I pretended not hear it.

Now there’s Trouble Ahead
Oh Lady In Red
Cocaine wore off
Now
I wish
I was Dead!

That’s so annoying.

WaaaaaaaaA AAAAY!
BOY!!!
God man.
You know what I would really enjoy?
Now
I
Am waiting for the
Dwark with some opioids!

You can’t deny
me
you
Always wanna try me

Yo you just gonna get your girl dicked!!!

Pop quiz:

By who?

Hint:

ADD + CIA: the Connection

When I see one I know it — and this is a Very Good Bet:

America will soon experience an absolute hissy-fit explosion in crystal meth use.

I know, I know. I know what you’re saying: “Soon? But Mike E — I heard crystal meth is already the Scourge Of The Nation!”

So they say. But if crystal meth is the Scourge Of The Nation I ask: How come I’m not on it right now?

Why indeed? After all I just bought four 30-milligram extended release Adderalls for $5 a pop from some jerk off the street. I call him a jerk because he opened two of the capsules and scooped a third of the speed out from each. When I confronted him a few minutes later he basically said “Tough Shit.” And only a jerk would say that to the dude — a friend — who just payed a premium price for the pills to begin with.

But I didn’t call him a jerk to his face. Why? Arithmetics. The law of Supply & Demand.

I didn’t want to piss the dude off because Demand is high. Supply is low. Brattleboro is in the midst of an Adult ADD epidemic of historic proportions and we plain old don’t got enough medicine. It took me two days to hunt the jerk down as it was; piss him off and I’ll be shit out of luck the next time around. It’s a Seller’s Market for Adderall in this town — and in Seller’s Markets the Jerks call the shots.

Especially when the Buyer is more addicted than Jane.

Sad fact is — from the addicted standpoint — I’m real close to shit out of luck already. I will be completely, not long from now, when those few paltry pills wear off. So I ask again: If crystal meth is the Scourge Of The Nation why didn’t I instead spend my $20 on that?

Why indeed? A twenty sack of meth packs roughly a billion-proof stronger punch than even a smashingly good $20 deal on Adderall. Twenty dollars worth of good meth will keep you up for 3 days; whereas 120 milligrams of Adderall practically puts me to sleep.

I need 150 milligrams to actually fall asleep.

So why not go for the meth? One could propose Good Reasons. Mostly having to do with the overall evil-ness of crystal meth. You know, like the shit kills you & all. Even I may be inclined to agree that — from a general health standpoint — I’m better off with the type of speed doctors prescribe. And you, dear reader, may be inclined to pat me on the back for choosing so wisely.

Fuck you.

I want some meth.

Why? Arithmetic reasons. Meth is cheaper plus it lasts longer.

Total no brainer dudes!

But the fact is you can’t get crystal meth in Brattleboro.

Why?

Part of me thinks it’s because — for reasons of good conscience — people who could bring meth to town don’t want to. And the fact is that people who intermittently may wish it were — people like me — do not in actuality want it around. For obvious reasons.

I took my first Adderall in 1999. I thought it was awesome dudes. I took to pharmaceutical amphetamines with literally uncommon zeal. I like them little buggers so much that if I had had steady access to crystal meth — for any prolonged time-stretch since — I bet money I would be something quite like dead.

In the late 1990’s America experienced a near hissy-fit explosion in OxyCotin use. So-called the “Hillbilly Heroin,” these legally prescribed painkillers introduced widespread swaths of rural America — where heroin is scarce — to the opioid in its’ crush & snortable (or injectable) form.

Recently, on the heels of a multi-million dollar class-action settlement, the makers of OxiContin admitted they had deliberately encouraged doctor’s to over-prescribe the drug — to reap profit windfalls from the illegal resale of the surplus.

Whoa.

Surplus of OxiContin? Way.

Excellent!!

OcyContin has two major advantages over heroin. It’s better. And it’s better.

But when the Feds crack down on doctor’s who over prescribe Oxies — bogus! — and all of the sudden you can’t get one to save your life, heroin — typically available in the nearest medium-sized city — is the next best thing.

A huge difference between O-C’s & heroin is the ability to measure your dosage. OxyContin comes in pills containing a precise number of milligrams. The largest, 80 milligrams, will very likely not kill even a first-time user. Two 80 milligram pills pose a mortal danger to even seasoned junkies.

So now you know.

But you don’t know how much heroin is in the bag they sell you. So when your town gets strung on the Dirty there’s a very good chance that soon a friend will die.

Hasn’t happened around here recently. Mainly because — most of the time — the bags are small & the dope is cut. That’s why people do so much of it all at once. And that’s why people die.

Another major difference between OxyContin & heroin is that the CIA sells heroin. Etc. So when the Feds crack down on the doctors for getting millions of new heroin customers addicted to opiates — and your friends die because you suddenly can’t get an OxiContin to save your life — the CIA laughs all the way to the bank.

Almost like they planned it that way.

Same way as They plan to get the population of Brattleboro, VT hooked like a guppies on meth.

Look: This blog is twitchy & lengthily jabbered proof that doctors over prescribe Adderall. Not that they prescribe enough exactly. Not for me. But my own habits are a different story. This one is about how soon the Feds will crack down on the doctors for over prescribing speed.

Then the CIA will dump a whole wazoo load of the bomb meth in Brattleboro.

Heh heh.

That’ll way rule!

Officer P. Keer

You know what never ceases to amaze me?

The kind of gigantically dumb questions cops ask.

Like the one time I got pulled over by a Vermont State Trooper because my truck was too loud after the muffler fell off. He had me in the front seat of his cruiser. I wasn’t under arrest. But it’s State Police policy to be forced to search you for weapons & contraband for their own protection before they seat you next to them while they radio in to see if your papers are in order.

It takes a few minutes of course. Which gives them plenty of time to think of some gigantically dumb question to ask.

The cop glared at me as if to say:
Alright kid.

Then he asked “When was the last time you smoked any pot?”

Yeah…Like 3 to 5 minutes ago, officer – thanks for asking!

Rolled me up big old honker joint. I did. A fatty. Man, that joint was fatter than Jerry Garcia’s coffin. Fatter than the ugly little pecker that grows straight out of a certain someone’s forehead.

Mr. Vermont State Police man, sir.

Fatter than yo’ momma! That’s right. And yo’mommaz so fat her ass fell off.

Fatty Fatty. Yeah. The mother of all joints! I sparked her up. Got so stoned I fell flat on my ass.
So it seemed.

Turns out I just thought I got so baked that I fell on my ass. In actuality I got so cooked that I fell flat on my elbow. A honest mistake; my brain was all fucked up from the doobage. That, plus my fastastic & chronic lifelong disdain for reality.

Ass? Elbow? For all I knew I’d just rocketed wildly around the cosmos with the convertable top dropped down in a stolen & souped up flying pinball machine. Open container of XXXmake-believe in one hand; the mother of all fat joints in my other. Both corners of my lips jolted toward heaven & rolled around my perpetually lit American Spirit menthol cigarrette & curled into an unlawfully wild grin. I steered with one knee.

Vroomage!

Like a streaming red-scarf Snoopy flying on his dog house. Homer Simpson on peyote. Hunter E Vonnegut, Jrr. gone mad on make believe.

I ground my right heel into the pinball machine’s speed pedal & skillfully piloted my new ride toward a fancy hotel swimming pool in what appeared to be Atlantic City.

A parking ticket flapped beneath the driver-side windshield wiper but I was too cool for it. It bored me. Why bother with tickets when we can take the ride for free?

It’s amazing how much easier it is taking private planes. Just avoiding the bullshit of the airport and all that. Airports are such an amazing burnout for some reason: really just the effort it takes to be around Straight People. You know I swear to God, man – the amount of effort you have to have just to keep yourself Controlled…
>>Jerry Garcia, 1981

How long ‘till we’re cleared for landing? The Captain has turned off the No Money light. You are now free to win the Kentucky Derby.

Yeah. So FICA – whoever you are: you can kiss my motherfucking ass!

As long as I stay unemployed you can’t have my money.

You BASTARDS!!

*shakes fist at sky*

I have no idea what I just said dudes – but Right On.

A roll of spring mudwater splashed in through a cracked-open side window and skipped & tickled across my cheek. My eyes sprung open. I felt freshly awakened from one niftily concocted torpedo of a dream. Though I deemed it equally likely that I’d just now fallen to sleep.

Either way the surety that my red Nissan pickup truck was in actuality a rocket-propelled pinball machine remained intact.

Sweet.

Still I couldn’t help but wonder: Was I going around in circles? Ah. Yes. Naturally.

In a busy-sky holding pattern above Atlantic City.

That explains my sense that I’d gone around the exact same circle – circumferentially & by appearance quite like a traffic circle – for an indeterminate length of time. A nice long spin around a make-believe cul de sac from which all exits lead to reality.

Can anyone tell me how to get to the dark side of Titan?

I need directions! Maybe…ah? Nope. Of course not.

There’s never a cop around when you need one.

Just then I heard I siren. Pulled over. The cop walked to my window. I rolled the window the rest of the way down. The cop looked like he wanted to ask me something.

“Dude!” I exclaimed before he got a chance. “Are you from Titan? That is so excellent.”

“Step out of the vehicle.” He answered – I thought a touch indirectly. “And empty your pockets. Do you have any guns, knives or contraband?”

I got his meaning. Not from Titan?

Bogus!”

While we walked to his cruiser the state cop informed that he pulled me over because my muffler was too loud. We sat in his car. He radioed my identity in for verification.

“So.” The cop asked in a smugly rhetorical tone while we waited. “Why did I just watch you drive around that traffic circle eleven times?”

“Dunno.” I conjectured. “Maybe because my truck looked groovy with your blue lights on while you followed me?”

The ugly little pecker that grew from the State Cop’s forehead wiggled. It was for me a moment of gargantuan unpleasantry. My skin crawled & blood screeched like rusty wheels on a second-hand rollercoaster with Fear.

The cop eyed me rudely; the pecker on his forehead was getting a boner because it thought he would take me to jail.

My muscles tensed.

He asked when was the last time I smoked any pot.

I wondered what that had to do with my loud muffler. Got confused. Until I realied that’s just what happens when you try to answer some of the gigantically dumb questions cops ask.

That’s how they try to get you; ask really dumb question and hope you trip over one.

Well. One dumb question deserves another. Why not?

“When was the last time you smoked any pot??” I incredulously asked right back.

“Don’t get smart with me.” He snarled. “Now. I’m going to search your vehicle. So why don’t you just tell me where to look for your pot?”

“I wish I knew!” I forlornly confessed. “It was stashed in my muffler – and I plumb can’t remember where it fell off. ”

The cop laughed.

The veins in his forehead riled blood-full with anger. But the pecker flopped down & bounced between VT State Trooper P. Keer’s eyes.

“Get out of my face.” He ordered limply.

Ordered me? Don’t know.

I was too guilty to bother to ask.

*poof+

Welcome To The Monkey On My Back.

For speedWay readers who wonder how they can bet on the next Spun Cookie Race; or for that matter aren’t yet clear on what a Spun Cookie is…Here’s a good rule of thumb: the cookie has nothing to do with it. In fact I think that cookie has out-lived its’ usefulness.

Fuck cookies.

From now on: It’s 24/7 Spun Kookie races on the world famous open container speedWay!

Spread the word.

The question then is what is Spun?

Spun is like a perma-tilted pinball machine. Though the Game Over light keeps flashing the Credit counter, clearly malfunctioned, registers enough credits to provide free pinball until the 2010 mid-term elections. After that it plans to run for President.

Ever hear of a pinball game called Strange Torpedo? Me neither. I called the manufacturer to inquire about the machine’s origins. They told me that it was the only one of its kind.

Weird thing is even when the machine is unplugged the lights keep on a-flashing. It claims to pick up the extra credits in dimensions parallel to and equally as ‘real’ as our own. Quantum physisits insist these mathematical necessities — called Elsewheres — exist in realms flung so far through time & space we will never encounter them.

Strange Torpedo disagrees. Says those Elsewheres — far from flung — are really so close to our own Reality Assumption that without the right kind of eyes we don’t see them.

Strange Torpedo never shuts off for a more obvious reason — the pinball machine somehow convinced some psychiatrist to prescribe him mix-salt amphetamines for a bogus case of A.D.D.

Strange Torpedo — the sleepless extraterrestrial multi-dimension leaning orphan pinball machine — is one good example of Spun.

“Yo those Spun Cookies on your blog are pretty stale.” A friend pointed out recently. “Can we smoke ’em?”

Pippi: can you smoke a Spun Cookie?

Heads Up: To The Youth! You can take Pippi at her word. She is not just an expert. Pippi is long gone Pro.

She writes a weekly column for the successful fiber-craft web rag Knitty; a column Pippi sneakily & bravely named Get Spun.

Wicked frikkin funny. No shit.

Not the column itself — though it’s no doubt speckled liberally with cult knitter inside jokes. The title though is all-time classic art by itself; it will live brilliantly on. The joke not only identifies Pippi’s allegiance — on our side — it also spews chuckles aplenty out of every old-time drug user I tell.

“Hey my friend Pippi calls her column in a knitting magazine Get Spun!”

“Do the knitters know?” One friend asked.

Only the knitters who know shit about anything.

“Man I am Spun.” A friend once proclaimed.

“Hard Spun.” I assured him.

And that is all ye need to know.

Unless you still can’t figure out what Spun means.

One time in the passenger seat of a parked car I got so wasted on drugs — quality psychedelics — that I actually thought I was flying a spaceship.

It is the uncontested pinnacle of my personal far&wide drug experience. To this day I still swell some with pride at the accomplishment. Just you go an imagine the amount of drugs required. Plenty of people have taken enough drugs to forget momentarily which exact planet they are on.

But who here has borrowed & taken the actual spaceship out for a joy spin?

Truth told: The spaceship was not lent so much as conjured from brain resin — strange hypothalamic crystalline wash-off (reputedly the most potent drug concoction in the cosmos) — which lay sludge-puddled & stuck in the bottom of my skull. This residue of a 10-year plus drug binge is the leftover drugs that, for various unavoidable reasons, never made it to the hypothalamus; the part of the brain responsible for converting drugs into the neurotransmitter proteins — ie dopamine & seretonin –which rule so total-way awesomely.

Normally these sludge pools lie dormant but under special conditions — when the bottom-skull reservoirs are full, a feat accomplished at maximum on 2 or 3 occasions per lifetime — erupt. Back into the brain. And settle. Thinly & invisibly blanket the hypothalamus. Then seep slowly if with pronounced efficacy over the course of the ensuing decade into the various synapses.

WAY! Free drugs dudez!

That’s the real reason I seemed to handle a strange and blistering fast spacecraft — my first solo flight — with the greatest of ease. Because my reservoirs erupted. YEAH!! So I wasn’t just high on the drugs I took that night but on a semblance of all the drugs I — or anyone else — had barreled into my brain ever in my life.

Expensive little spaceship ride! I tell you.

But it was awesome.

That’s why Pippi says Get Spun.

Hard Spun.

Off to the Monkey House — gone. Gone far & hard enough to never come back.

Spun.

Spun Kookie.

Round & round & round & round
Round & round & round
& Round.

And Round!

Singing Thank You!!
For a real good time.
>>Grateful Dead

Any questions?

Yeah! Got one:

Who is going to win the 2007 Kentucky Derby (hint: my new favorite racehorse)?

I will place a complimentary $5 Kentucky Derby bet on behalf of the first reader to email me the correct answer. Get Spun. Spin It Like You Stole It. Good Luck.

Another Free Jar From Dr. Tweeks!

I had a dream this afternoon about my buddy MG TANK.

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He was dead from unexplained causes.

I wasn’t too sad though.

Things live. Things die. Welcome to planet Earth, dig?

It’s a topsy turvey world.

Nothing personal. I like the kid hugely. But…well you know how it is.Truth told: The whole thing worked out real sweet for me.

And TANK was too dead to know the difference.

Yo TANK! If you’re out there reading my blog from beyond the mysterious beyond — you should know:

Dude.

Your funeral total-way ruled!!

It was an open casket affair. MG TANK’S psychiatrist came. She’s a real nice lady. We call her Dr. Tweeks.

I stood in line behind Dr. Tweeks when we all filed past to view TANK’s body. Boy was that a stroke of fine luck & good timing! See, Dr. Tweeks paid last respects to her dearly departed patient by slipping a month’s supply of mixed-salt amphetamines into the breast pocket of TANK’s fancy funeral tuxedo.

MG TANK had a bumper sticker on his refrigerator. Yeah. Know what it says?

Yo TANK — I bet smartly you know which one I mean.

It’d be kind of like when I say, at times like these, “Hot damn it rocks to be Mike E!!!”

But in two or less words.

Tell you what dude: On account of having killed you in my blog post for a free jar of postmortem speed…I make you a deal. Tell me in the comment box which sticker I mean and I’ll give you a free pill the next time I see you.

Guess it wrong & I will off you again.

Righto then. Back to the daydream…

Tell you this: Just because that jar of speed was free sure don’t mean it came Easy.

Just as I moved to slip his funeral gift from Dr. Tweeks into my own sadly empty upper pocket MG TANK woke in a wild jolt from my daydream. Darkly disturbed at the molestation of his bon voyage stash & rudely determined to not have it be.

His fingers curled around my wrist in an icily genuine death-grip. His other hand stretched toward my neck.

“Off my cloud you dumb honky slut!!” TANK shrieked. I crammed my shirt-sleeve into his mouth to muffle his plea. It was no good at all for the whole funeral to know I’d got my hands on TANK’s last prescription. Too many fellow speed-freaks in the crowd. They’d demand to have it for their own.

And when I inadvertently neglected to cough it up the ensuing riot would pose a threat to public safety.

“Yo man!” I whispered frantically. “Don’t Fuck Around — if shit flies off someone might call the police!!”

“Cops??” TANK moaned wearily. “But..that’d be so bogus!!”

My friend wanted to roll over in his grave. But obviously couldn’t since he didn’t have one yet…*

TANK above all did not want Johnny Law to roll out & bust up his one & only funeral. He loosened his grip. Shot me a look that promised to haunt me & then spoke his last words on Earth:

See You On The Dark Side Of The Hobart Transport Portal!

“Word ’em up.” I said. Flipped the pill jar into my pocket. “Bring the Whateverz dude!!”

I strolled away giddily; like the gambler who just cheated & won. Or a little kid on Halloween who just scored the Trick or Treat candy stash from the limp grip of a neighbor –who’d been mauled moments before by a snarling & possibly rabid Mack truck.

Yeah — like thanks for the candy kiddo. Thanks for the candy!

Or maybe like me saying So Long & Thanks:

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