Archive for the 'lsd' Category

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 Ideoloogical/Crusading Aspect

Excerpts from a gem I turned up on the US Department of Justice website circa 2000.* Props where they’re Due: for once in their history the DEA actually almost got the Facts Straight!

*The DEA has since ‘updated’ their LSD ‘information’ and replaced what follows with a predictable honkey-load of Bull. My pal MG Tank had the forsight to print this up at the time…

Paper [has] emerged as the most popular means of distributing LSD. The paper squares are easy to conceal and transport. Unique designs can be applied to the paper to make the drug more appealing to young users and to serve as brand identification. Unlike the administration of other drugs, particularly the injection of heroin, the method of LSD ingestion (oral) is unobtrusive. Moreover, the non-commercial social philosophy of the environment surrounding LSD use & sales makes it difficult for young people to view LSD as a dangerous drug.

In contrast to the trafficking of other drugs, in which profit is the sole motivating factor, LSD trafficking has assumed an ideological or crusading aspect. The influence of — and probable distribution by — certain psychedelic generation gurus has created a secretiveness and marketing mystique to LSD, particularly at the higher echelons of traffic. Their belief in the beneficent properties of LSD has been, over the years, as strong a motivating factor in the production and distribution of the drug as the profits to be made from its sale.

Large amounts of LSD have been seized by drug enforcement authorities during the last several years, and numerous distributors have been arrested and convicted. Those at the upper echelon, however, continue to evade the law. These individuals appear to run an efficient and profitable operation that is difficult to penetrate.

Current Trafficking and Distribution

Traditionally, retail-level LSD distribution networks in the united states have been comprised of individuals who have known each other through long association or common interests. This has facilitated not only hand-to-hand sales of the drug, but a proliferation of mail order sales. DEA reporting indicates that LSD is available in at least retail quantities in virtually every state…and that availability is increasing in a number of states. Northern California appears to be the source of supply for most of the LSD available in the United States.

LSD is usually transported in two ways from the San Francisco Bay Area. First, overnight delivery services, including express mail, Federal Express, and DHL, are used extensively to transport large amounts of LSD throughout the United States. Second, LSD is shipped to major distributors in cities that host concerts of the ‘Grateful Dead’ band. The concerts are used as a forum for large-scale LSD distribution, as well as low-level or retail sales. In addition, intelligence reveals that major transactions are consummated at these events. Local police agencies have consistently reported that LSD use rises significantly prior to the concert and persists for a period after the band leaves town.

And that was a splendorous Fact.

But the fact @ street level today (as it was when this appeared on the DEA site in ’00) is: save the rarest exception there is not a decent Dose to be had in the United States of America. Hasn’t been since shortly after Jerry died. Certainly there is no way to trust the quality of whatever may be marketed as LSD. My advice to the Youth: do yourself a favor and steer clear.

And that’s sad to say.


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!

Last Stop before the Promised Land


BoomTown: the last exit in Nevada before Interstate 80 climbs the Sierra Mountains & hurtles on over the Bay Bridge & into San Francisco.

I feel nostalgia thinking about it. A big ol’ honker Pang. Matter of fact: I need a drink.

I know for a fact Pippi blew by BoomTown a few dozen times at least and if she never stopped it was for a good reason: Pippi was on her way to see the Grateful Dead in California.

So she had better things to do.


But she remembers it was there. I’ll wager she does. Good old BoomTown: Last exit before the Promised Land!

Gotta quandary: I want to explain the Grateful Dead to readers who weren’t there. And do Justice for you kids who were. But that’d be like trying to describe how it feels to slurp your own brains up through a cocktail straw. Dig? It’s tricky. But I say! That was one cosmic & curiously strong Drink.

The Dead threw the Best Party Ever on Planet Earth.

Oh and it was Awesome dudes!

For fun on Grateful Dead Tour we used to butter our toast with dripping gobs of raw crystal LSD — the original Grand Slam breakfast! — at Denny’s on our way out of town. Just for something to Do (besides drive) on days when the band didn’t play..

Holy shot!! Ain’t that illegal?

Sweet Memory: Eugene Oregon’s Autzen Stadium back in ’94. The shows where Ann Coulter found Jesus Christ — but that’s another story…

Cool thing about Eugene was the way the cops for once weren’t allowed to run us off like kicked dogs after each show. So we made a weekend of It. Pitched a tent maybe & then got wasted on drugs until it jolly dang-well pleased us. Fuck yeah we did.

Sweet Mother Earth knows we did.

It rained for the first gig of that 3-show ’94 Eugene run. During set break everybody just kind of splashed around & smoked weed & got wet. Who cared? I guess even then we knew Jerry wouldn’t live forever. Little rain? Shit. We went on & had our fun anyway.

Far as I know football stadiums don’t melt in the rain — but we had plenty of good acid. Yeah we wanted Autzen Stadium to melt.

It didn’t. It is still there. But we tried.

Plus there was a giant duck:


And that made the difference between us just Gettin By & doing so in fine Style.

It rained a little longer. Then the Grateful Dead came out to play.

3 partially dissolved floating blue dots

I don’t puke often.

Once — in New Orleans — I hurled from too much alcohol. I threw up at my first Grateful Dead concert, back in 1985, I think because I’d never smoked such intensely potent pot before. Of course there’s the wooHOO! pukes 45 minutes or so after eating ecstasy — but that’s when the pukinz rule.

I was at a party Friday night. Sitting on the couch talking to a friend about the first time she took mushrooms. With her best friend on top of some mountain. They ate the shrooms. Ten minutes later her friend threw up. It sucks when that happens because 10 minutes isn’t long enough for the shrooms to make their way into the brain.

What can you do?

I didn’t want to think too hard on it. I’d eaten a little LSD — a drug I may be too old for — maybe an hour earlier and felt a touch queasy ever since.

So I popped my last 3 speed pills — 10 milligram Adderalls, the blue ones — hoping they’d calm my tummy down. And sat on the couch with my friend Andrea. She started to tell me the story about the first time she ate shrooms. Wonderful. A good story like that always makes me feel better…

…Until she got to the part where her friend puked up all the shrooms.

My tummy gurgled.

I don’t puke often. So I really don’t know the early warning signs. I felt a bit queasy, as I said. And when she started to talk about puke my tummy gurgled. Naturally. Why wouldn’t it?

Only thing is I figured it didn’t have anything to do with me puking right that second specifically.

Andrea kept telling her story.

They were on top of some mountain, her & her best friend, just the two of them eating mushrooms for the first time. And Andrea’s best friend threw the shrooms up into a pile on the ground. By then Andrea’s shrooms were already finding their way into her brain. Faced with the unhappy prospect of tripping alone Andrea did the only thing that made sense:

She made her friend pluck the shrooms out of the puke-pile and eat them again.

Now that’s a great story about the first time eating shrooms. Unless you were me listening to it right then.

My tummy gurgled lurched & before I realized what was happening I wretched violently. Cusped my hand over my mouth & raced for the nearby & (happily) empty bathroom. Swung my head over the toilet just in time. Emptied the contentents of my dinner into the bowl.

‘Dang.’ I thought. And I was so proud of myself for managing to eat that hot dog before I went off to party…

Oh well. At least I felt better. And — as the squiggle-colored lines dancing to & fro in front of my eyes could attest — at least I’d managed more-or-less to digest the LSD.

I cleaned myself off. Hallucionated a little more. And right about then hoped the speed I’d recently eaten would kick in soon. For familiarity’s sake; I’d not eaten acid for some time and knew the amphetamines would keep my brain-rails grounded in familiar psyhchic terrain.

Yeah but then wouldn’t you know it? As I reached over to flush, a quick glance into the toilet bowl revealed the last thing I wanted to see:

Three partially dissolved little blue dots floating there and — I know I was tripping and all but I’ll be damned if those evil fuckers weren’t laughing at me!