Archive for the 'Duff Beer' Category

Synchronicity In Drunken Motion

I have a friend. speedWay readers know her by the moniker Absynth Eve. My friends in Vermont know who I mean. But seem to not understand why me & Absynth Eve hang out.

Absynth Eve is my friend.

My old friend; we met in 1994. I was selling beer & Jagermiester shots from a cooler on the sidewalk in front of the Burger King adjacent to the Glenn’s Falls Civic Center arena in upstate New York.

It rained torrential that Halloween night. But I was sheltered by the part of Burger King’s roof that hung out over their sidewalk. The Burger King management had seemingly no qualm with the unlicensed vendor who boisterously hawked booze on their premises. They were too over run with their own customers to care.

A giant digital clock above us kept revelers assiduously aware of the time. The revelers were duly appreciative; lest we become inadvertently too drunk or stoned or spun kookie on shrooms to keep track of the time for ourselves.

Phish would play at 9PM sharp. And it would be legendary. So no one wanted to miss even the first notes of the gig.

Sometime after dark — maybe around 7 — a young lady approached me. She was soaking wet and looked a bit shaken.

“Everything OK?” I asked.

“No!” She explained. “I just got into a car accident!”

“Oh shit. Were you drunk?” I queried.

“Shit yes I was.” She assured me. “Good thing I wasn’t actually driving!”

“No kidding.” I agreed. “I try not to drive drunk. Though I do so enjoy a cold behind-the-wheel brew!”

“Me too.” My new friend winked. “Except I like to have a beer in one hand & a shot in the other. You know. Smoke a joint maybe & pop a few shrooms. Steer with my knees…Which is exactly what I was just now up to. But someone crashed in to me! What should I do?”

Like is this girl for real? I wanted to know.

“Hold on!” I protested what appeared a hole in her story. “You said you weren’t driving.”

“Not actually driving.” She corrected me. “I was in the drivers seat. Beer. Shot. Bong hit. Popped a couple shrooms. Dig? All of the sudden I needed to use my knees to steer because my hands were full and — even though the car was parked — the shrooms made it go vroom!”

Ah yes. I could see it happening.

“Shit girl.” My voice filled with admiration. “You got so lit up that you crashed your parked car?? That is WAY cool!”

I gave her a beer and a shot. And — having been slooped on booze myself at the time — forgot about the whole encounter. Until a half-decade later. When I made a new friend at the Bar back home in Loserboro, Vermont. We chatted about some things and got drunk. At some point I mentioned something about the time I sold beer in the rain outside the Burger King at the ’94 Halloween Phish show.

“Underneath the huge clock?” Absynth Eve asked, eyes widened with surprise.

“Yeah. Right there beneath the clock. Freezing cold out, but no one gave a fuck. The beer business boomed. Oh yeah,” I added. “I sold liquor too.”

“Jagermiester?” Sophie asked.

“How did you know?”

“You gave me a shot.”

“No shit?”

I wasn’t surprised. I’m not shall we say profit savvy with fun things. I like to give fun things away.

“No shit.” Said Absynth Eve at the Bar in Loserboro while we chatted & got drunk when we thought we’d first met back in 1999. “Don’t you remember me?”

I wanted to. It’s always good to remember things about a new lady friend like their names and when you first met. I strained mentally until the words flew like snarfed beer from my mouth:

Oh shit, I exclaimed. “You’re the girl who crashed her parked car!! Yo I got mad respect for you.”

It was all over after that. In the near-decade that has passed we have been some things. Tremendous allies. Near mortal enemies. Fuck buddies. Ex fiances. Sages. Fools. Healthy advesaries. Petty rivals.

Kindred spirits.

Partners in the crime of survival.


To this day & always.

And if you don’t like it you can KISS my fat black ass.

Bur probably you won’t get the chance; you probably won’t see me around.

Dear Drugs: THANK YOU!! for a real good time..


Without illegal drugs, my life, up till & including tonight, would have sucked toast. Way bogus. I mean bad; a total waste of time.

It would have all been so stupid!!

Shit yes. I have problems. My life has been hard. But when I’ve needed them drugs have been there for me. When I had nowhere else to turn it was drugs that saved the day.

Even when my life sucks directly because of drugs it still beats the sad crap out of how bad life would suck with no drugs at all. I will go so far as to say I feel certain I would’ve killed myself long ago if the drugs weren’t on my side.

Why? Because drugs gave me something to live for. A reason to stay awake for another day & night when the sun comes up each morning. Yeah & you know what?

Drugs give me Hope!

Mostly they’ve helped me celebrate life with people I love. I am going to die one day. When I do I’ll look back over this 1 & 3/4 decades-long drug binge and congratulate myself for a job smashingly well done. Yeppers kiddoz! My first hit of weed was the smartest choice I ever made. Until I finally got to check out some of that L$D!!

And when you go without food — due to smoldering abject poverty — for a day or few you will thank Adolph Hitler, Sweet Mother Earth and maybe even Jesus — that evil cocksucker — for all the amphetamines.

So thanks again drugs. Just sorry you had to wear off so soon. Ya’ll come back now y’hear!

Ok. Off to sleep.


The Salmon Of Disco

Dig: The graph below demonstrates the difference in energy required to get a sober vs. a drunk person to dance at the disco party.


Notice that less energy is needed to activate a [red] catalyzed reaction — while a greater energy input is required to activate & drive its uncatalyzed [blue] counterpart to completion in the same amount of time.

Look the graph over once more while you chew on the above paragraph please; it’s entirely brain wraparound-able.

Like [blue] is the dude who just showed up cold sober to the party. While [red, catalyzed] is a properly liquored up party goer.

The reactions are complete when each hits the dance floor.

The red line denotes the amount of energy required before a lady-friend’s entreaties successfully convince a drunk person to disco dance. Blue for the amount of convincing Joe Sober dude needs.

The drunk person goes by the name Drunk Yo.

Joe Sober requires more energy to convince him to dance to We Are Family. You can count on it like a law of physics.

Drunk Yo’s activation energy is far lower than Joe Sober’s since Drunk Yo is halfway to the dance floor already.

Singing I got all my sisters & ME!!

By strategically lowering the activation energy required to move a drunk ass to the dance floor, liquor makes Drunk Yo a million times easier to convince. In this way liquor at the disco party behaves remarkably like chemical reaction catalysis.

Joe Sober will get funky eventually. It’s human nature. But without the benefit of catalysis…not funky enough. Not fast enough. Joe Sober is of no use to the party.

Not without liquid booze fuel.

Consider: a salmon steak breaks down far more readily, to its’ molecular components, in the presence of enzymes — digestive catalysts — in the stomach, than when left to rot in the sun. Each result — the molecular LEGO set from which salmon steak is originally assembled — looks quite the same.

But catalysis accelerates the situation in magnificently handy ways.

Yeah — whoa! — like Far Out.


If you learned one thing here today remember this: The crucial difference is speed.

Any questions?

Gonzo Fantasy

I was duped.

Click for music

Somewhere in the desert between Barstow & Vegas at the Edge of my adolescence — I was Plumb Lied To.

To wit:

Moments later, my attorney slipped into a drug coma and almost ran a red light on Main Street before I could gain control of the Shark and take the wheel myself. Feeling fine. Extremely sharp.

Total Control Now.

Ahh yes. This is what it is all about. Two Good Old Boys in a fire-apple red convertable on a Saturday Night in Las Vegas. STONED. Ripped. Twisted.

Good People.

Hunter S. Thompson wrote that. He was drinking heavily & for long with his friend Oscar at the Polo Lounge in Beverly Hills, one Friday afternoon back in ’71, when a uniformed dwarf cautiously approached their table with a pink telephone on a tray.

“This must be the call you’ve been waiting for this whole time.” said the Dwark.

Indeed. I gobbled the story down like a trunk-load of drugs. Better than drugs! Like a trunk-load of gonzoi doparhythm.

Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas — and Hunter himself — taught me how I alone happen to know precisely what the fuck I am doing. He made me want to bet smartly on me.

Dared me to bet my own life, even.

The call was from Sports Illustrated. That’s verifiably true. They hired Thompson to write a 250-word caption blurb about the Fabulous Mint 4oo motorcycle race in Las Vegas. They would leave at once. And expenses — rented hot-rod, sound-proof sweet, VIP parking — be damned.

The sporting editors also coughed up $300 cash which Doctor & Attorney famously spent on the following:

Two bags of grass. 75 pellets of mescaline. 5 sheets of high-power blotter acid…

I don’t have a copy of the Good Book with me. Am I getting this right? There was a salt shaker half-filled with cocaine, I recall. Plus a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers & laughers. And also a quart of rum. A quart of tequila. A pint of raw ether and a case of Budweiser…

They blew out of LA at dawn, purports the story, and were somewhere around Barstow when the drugs began to take hold. Then they drove around Vegas until their stash was gone. Wrote a couple Rolling Stone articles about it. Random House bought and published the articles as a book.

And that’s the story about how Hunter S. Thompson hit the Big Time — back when any jerk with a typewriter & a headfull of mescaline could do it that way.

But it doesn’t explain why I cried so when I saw the Good Doc’s obituary. I mean I wept wildly. There’s one quality in writers I admire above all; words that bring good folks together as friends.

And Hunter above ’em all was — is, truly — like a cosmically old Friend to me. One I’d long hoped to meet.

You know why I cried? Because I never got a chance to thank my old friend. To say:

I’m proud to call you my Hero.

Oh & yo Doc, one more thing — you are a pansy-eyed Amature Twerp and if you shot yourself — for real –well then I say you eat douches.

Dig this: A 1971 letter — published in 2000, 15 years after I first read Vegas — from Hunter to his Random House editor, Jim Silberman, in response to Jim’s peculiarly keen observation:

What depresses me is your statement that it was “absolutely clear” to you that Raoul Duke & his attorney “were not on drugs [in Las Vegas].” Because my conception of that piece was to write a thing that would tell what it was like to do a magazine assignment with a head full of weird drugs. I didn’t really make up anything — but I did, at times, bring situations & feelings I remember from other scenes to the reality at hand. I might even claim, for that matter, that this was done by consciously tripping the fabled “LSD recall and/or Flashback Mechanism.


So…the trunk of the Great Red Shark actually didn’t look like a mobile police narcotics lab?

So Hunter Thompson drove sober.


His acid-crazed attorney didn’t want to be electrocuted to death in the bath when the White Rabbit peaked?

Nah — the Samoan just threw a little hissy-fit when he lost his rubber ducky under the tub.

Thompson’s mind didn’t recoil in horror then at the sight of his body parking the Shark — floor-mats soaked in ether — on the sidewalk in front of Circus Circus?

Well. Yes he did park on the sidewalk. But it was an emergency; his attorney spotted an old lady with no one to help her cross the street!

Why not? By his own admission every word in the book was bogus. A fraud on its face. But he was on someone else’s corporate tab. So of course it had to be done.
All this begs the Question: did he — or did he not — drag that fence 30 feet across the Las Vegas Airport runway so his Attorney wouldn’t miss his flight?

Either way I tell you what Buster — don’t FUCK with the Drug Coma on Main Street!

That one is sacred. Let me have my jollies. Don’t mess with a man’s Gonzo Fantasy.

We’re all friends here :)

At the age of 15 I believed every word written in Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. Down to the last drop of human adrenalcreme!


Children are capable, of course, of literary belief, when the storymaker’s art is good enough to produce it. That state of mind has been called the “willing suspension of disbelief.” But this does not seem to me to be a good description of what happens. What really happens is the storymaker proves a successful “subcreator.” He makes a Secondary World which your mind can enter. Inside it, what he relates is “true;” it accords with the laws of that world. You therefore believe it while you are, as it were, inside.

JRR Tolkien

Weird: 15 years after I first read Vegas — and a half decade since it’s been revealed fictional — I don’t believe any less in the truth twoard which Hunter strove. If anything…way more.
I also believe Gandalf smote that Balrog on the snowy mountain and survived. Remember when they found Gandalf with Treebeard? I felt joy. Why? Gandalf is my friend. Must be, since I think it totally rocks, still, the way he didn’t die.

And what of DR. HST? Credit Where Due:

Hunter S. Thompson was a Fantasy man. Surely as Gandalf rode Shadofax fast the Good Doctor wrote some curiously potent fantasy. Most remarkable were his repeated, admirable attempts — sheriff’s race; Rock & Roll vote; unique friendship with and all powerful early endorsement of President Carter — to spike the punch-bowl of Reality.

He duped me in the best possible way. I never doubted a word he wrote. Yet he made it all up. Or did he? Honestly — why would he leave drug infested LA for an all-expense paid Vegas weekend without a trunk full of goodies?

Some suggest Hunter’s work is G-Rated fiction; a Secondary World subcreated from his own, far more depraved Reality…

Did he sample human adrenalcreme? I sure don’t know — and I never will. I’ll wonder though. But always get my best Hoot when I don’t know.

But this is a different subject, & there’s no point in trying to come to grips with it here. What I’m talking about, in essense, is the mechanical Reality of Gonzo Journalism…or Total Subjectivity, as opposed to the bogus demands of Objectivity.
>>HST re: Vegas 1971

To help grasp the Gonzo concept I offer the most succinct yet thorough description Hunter wrote on his self-invented style:

You Cannot Always Find Two “Reliable Sources” to Verify What You Know is True. And that is where I parted company with those bastards a long time ago..

I propose a hybrid genre; one I’ve barely touched on here. What I’m into in essense is Gonzo Fantasy. A kind of neuromolecular Make-Believe; an alternate to the bogus-load o’ bull we’re duped to believe is Reality.

Keep it unreal!

give your jar of crappy old Speed to me.

One thing you can for sure say about a Green House Party: There’ll still be a good 15 folks drinking beer on the front lawn 72 hours later.

‘Fuck YES!!’ Someone may exclaim. ‘It ain’t a party unless it goes on all weekend!’

‘You know,’ a cohort will point out, ‘I don’t think it’s still the Weekend.’

‘No way,’ the beat goes on, ‘Even better!’

There’ll be silence for a bit of while. Till someone says:

‘I have no idea what day it is!’

The party stragglers respond with 2 words, sung in wastoid unison.

‘Right On!’

Happens every time.

Another thing happens at every Green House Party. I show up, say some Hellos & look for my buddy grooveBeaker. Find, say hi & high-5 him. Peel a lap around the inside of the house. Built in a circular concept – with no doors to separate the kitchen, living & dining room – it takes about 7 to 15 seconds, dependent on traffic conditions, to route the entire first floor.

I first ran into grooveBeaker in the kitchen, then split – to not be rude – and dashed around the house. Met back up a few seconds later a few steps from where I left him. Acted casual. A little surprised to see him again so quickly. Took a step past him, then pretended to remember something; a question I wanted to ask. Small question. Nothing to see here.

By now the farce is comic – grooveBeaker knows my Game. He gives me the nod. Before I pop the Question I dart my eyes around the crowd of faces. It is always good in these moments to have a Plan B. So I made a quick mental tally of other likely Prospects.

‘Yo, uh so grooveBeaker there,’ I stammered reluctantly, ‘You you know got like any…’

grooveBeaker eyed me blankly. His expression revealed nothing. He could’ve finished my sentence for me. Or cut straight past the verbal mumbo jumbo & just dispensed the festivities. He could. But why would he? He stood to gain nothing by making it easy.

I saw that he was unwilling to cooperate. It jarred me from my feigned pleasantry. I mean am I some kind of god damn old lady?


‘Yo I’m Mike E bitch!’ I explained. ‘I go crazy without Dexedrine. And we wouldn’t want that, right? So fork ‘em over you dumb honky slut!’

His chin began to tremble. For a second I thought he would cry. I wondered if maybe grooveBeaker was getting too old for this shit. Until I realized my friend was strained to hold back a bellyfull of laughs.

Wonderful. You’ve heard the old adage: Laughter is the Best Medicine.

‘What did you just call me?’ He asked.

‘I called you? No way. You called ME, pal. For medical advice. Remember? Asked me if it was true that laughter was good medicine. Yeah. Boy. Shit is fucking spectacular medicine. As your doctor I advise you to laugh like a hyena on PCP. Yeppers – best medicine ever! Now…seeing that you got a whole belly full of that BOMB shit…it would be psycho pharmacologically advantageous to give your jar of crappy old Speed to me. Thanks for calling!’

Like jazz; make-believe in motion; poetry.

In short, a smashing performance. I felt like a million bucks. Where moments earlier I felt like I owed some dude $50!

I closed my eyes and savored the moment. Felt a mile-long drug eating grin curl from lip to ear. I quietly thanked the Cosmix Gonzo for making me so smart. The Cosmix Gonzo didn’t answer. I figured because the Cosmix Gonzo was speechlessly pleased.

I peered through my squinted eyes. grooveBeaker stood there still. But his mind was far away.

I raised my eyebrows. Held my hand out to receive my hard-won pile of Dexies. Looked intently at my friend. He looked like he wanted something from me. I was stunned. How much more could I give?

‘I have no idea what you just said Mike E.’ grooveBeaker informed me. ‘It didn’t matter. But I must know what name you just called me.’

My outstretched hand fell wearily. Righto. Jokes over then. Pity. I thought it rather funny. But to the dude with pills – only one who counts – my very good joke never happened.

Oh well. At least I’d get to call him a dumb honky slut again.

‘I called you a dumb honky slut,’ I replied, ‘You Dumb Honky Slut!!’

‘That’s what I thought Mike E. I love you man!’ grooveBeaker’s voice welled with emotion. He hugged me.

Great. Maybe I’ll make a t-shirt that says I WENT TO THE GREEN HOUSE PARTY AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY HUG!! A long hug.

The Cosmix Gonzo hates me.

grooveBeaker stepped back. Finally. A nearby lady party-goer called us Homos.

I told her to go lick the carpet and hit her up for speed.

‘Yeah — I got Adderall.’ The lady party-goer said, then looked at grooveBeaker. He gazed at me like I was the coolest thing to come along since the doctor who diagnosed him with ADD. ‘But you can’t have it. Cause you’re kinda Cute you know, but — what’s in it For Me?’

‘I hope you’re happy.’ I told grooveBeaker.

‘Happy as a speed freak in an orchard of amphetamine trees! You know why?’


‘Because you called me a dumb honky slut.’ My friend beamed, ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me!!’

‘Of course it is. Yeah. Shit I tell you what – give me a pile of Dexedrine’s and I’ll wish you HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!’

Just then DJ 20 MG happened coincidentally by. ‘Well that was a pain in the ass huh?’ He said, ‘I almost gave up!’

‘How long you been stalking me?’ I asked.

‘The whole time. I know what it means when you circle around and find grooveBeaker 3 or 4 minutes after you get here!’

I handed him a pill. He looked at it & me. ‘Just one?’ he asked, ‘Dude – that took an hour! Don’t short me!’

‘You know what?’ I asked, laughed & broke the pill & ate half. ‘grooveBeaker’s girlfriend thinks you’re one Dumb Honky Slut!’

‘That’s right — me & yo Momma!’


Way I see it making money on the Internet ain’t so different from selling crack cocaine to the children.

Why not? The technique is Tried & True.

Give ’em what they want for free — until they’re Hooked.

Then charge ’em for the Goodies.

Like the way my blog server, WordPress, recently offered a paid upgrade to their outstanding free service.

Folks rarely complain about WordPress. When they do, it’s often about lack of customizable templates. Personally, my biggest beef with my old server was the option to customize my template. I am tech-retarded, but naturally curious — and a bit of a perfectionistic picky bitch. So when I first started out blogging, I spent most of my time goofing around with the HTML, trying to figure out how to insert a can of Duff Beer in my header.

Since I blog to learn to write stories — not some clunky out-dated code — the what-you-see is what-you-get policy at WordPress nicely suits my creative needs. I thank them for letting me blog here for free.

But — like that fabled Playground Crack Dealer — WordPress suddenly is like, pst Hey Mike E…we’ll let you have that Duff can you always wanted…but now it’s gonna Cost You.

They charge $15 a year for their new fully-customizable template. And, well…I know it when I see one — and that’s a pretty Good Deal.

Well then, I’m off to mug a school-kid for Duff Money.