Archive for the 'magic mushrooms' 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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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.

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

Fact:

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.

NOT!!

the Warning Shot

“You guys,” I asked. “What’s going to happen to all the people who live there when God flicks the entire state of New Hampshire off the face of the Earth like a booger?”

“Who gives a fuck??” Mommacake demanded. Mind you: this is the same Mommacake who gathered 50 friends into a circle at her 30th birthday party and sang us “You Are My Sunshine.” Solo. Just so we all knew she cared.

Mommacake does genuinely give a fuck. Just not about people from New Hampshire.

Can you blame her?

I leaned back into the cool early morning dirt and downed a fat swig of alien turd tea. Offered it around to the half-dozen friends who were still up with swerves still on from the previous night’s party. No takers: so I downed another. And popped a Dexadrine for good measure.

We sat on the bank of the river — the Connecticut — which forms the border between Vermont & New Hampshire.

vtnhmap1.jpg

That’s Vermont on the left, New Hampshire on the right. Brattleboro, where I live, is in the south-east corner of Vermont — so close to New Hampshire that we’re forced to look at that dumb lump of lousy bull every single day.

There’s a joke told in these parts:

Q. What’s the best thing about New Hampshire?

A. The view of Vermont.

I gazed across the river. But quickly covered my eyes & turned away; so blindingly did the mere sight offend me.

“I know, I know. I hate them to!” I assured Mommacake. “But…is it really their fault that they’re so stupid? I mean — we know that the southern part of their state is a polar ice cap flood plane. Why don’t they?”

“Because we’re smarter than they are!” Said Mommacake.

“And faster!” Someone said.

“Better looking!” Said someone else.

“YEAH — and we have more fun then they do!!”

Suddenly everyone eyed me with suspicion, there on the banks of the Connecticut River.

The whole New Hampshire thing is a running joke sort of deal we have around here. Like this one other morning. We were at a party on the 4th floor of a warehouse. When the sun came up we noticed that you could see New Hampshire; so Mommacake drew a middle finger sticking up at it with a sharpie marker on the window.

That kind of thing.

Why?

Besides the mentioned reasons — we’re smarter & better looking etc. — I’d say it’s because we’re bored. Maybe we’re trying to cheer ourselves up about the fact that it ain’t so great in Vermont, either. And it would be a gigantic improvment for us personally if New Hampshire was covered by seawater. That way the Connecticut River would be part of the Atlantic Ocean. And the riverbank we lounged on, all looped out of our skulls on drugs that summer morning, would be the Beach.

A very popular idea on our side of the river.

And god wants Vermont to have New Hampshire’s beach because we’re incontestably superior.

Not everyone agrees. Like right wing jerkoff Bill Oreilly from the Fox pretendaNews channel. He loathes us passionately. Hell we pissed him off — yet again — just this week.

It’s awesome when we do that dudes!!

“I feel sorry for Vermonters.” He said, after my hometown newspaper proposed in an editorial that George W. Bush was the worst president in American history. “They’re being held hostage by a bunch of extremists who put ideology over the safety of children and the good of their nation.”

Bill Oreilly is on New Hampshire’s side. He thinks the state “Gets it.” Says the people who live there are the “Stars of New England.”

Plus he kidnaps children and sells them to al-Queada for money to buy crack rocks. Yep — I know for a fact.

I’m Bill Oreilly’s crack dealer.

So obviously God made us Vermonters better than the New Hampshireites. But is that their fault? I’m just wondering…

“HEY!!” Mommacake shouted & roughed me up with her glare. “Whose side are you on, anyway?!”

She wore cut-off fatigue shorts with a wrap around belt. Doc Martin boots. And a tank-top that said Ass Grass or Gas in money-green glitter across the chest.

“Yo I’m on God’s side!” I swore. “But…I dunno. Maybe there’s some people over there worth saving?”

‘Dude.” She corrected me. “Those people are so dumb they teach their kids that babies come from Wal-Mart!”

It’s true. I was shoplifting at the Wal Mart just across the bridge in Hinsdale yesterday — and saw a New Hampshire youngster try to exchange himself for a PlayStation.

But he was a human being of sorts and I am a humanitarian.

“I think we should fire them a warning shot.” I insisted. “Yeah. It’s the right thing to do. They can take it or leave it — stay or go, don’t give a hoot — but they have a right to know.”

Mommacake’s eyes threw a spark.

“YEAH!” She exclaimed. Whistled & simmered with controlled combustion like a fresh-lit pyrotechnic fuse. I mean — should we??”

I looked in her eyes and saw she was laughing — silently, at the joke only she knows.

The rest of our early morning riverside party crew laughed helplessly out loud though we weren’t yet certain why.

Mommacake stood, hands on her hips, directly between the river & me. Stomped her foot twice and turned her back to the crowd. Her tattooed angel wings unfurled from beneath the tank top, spread over the width of her shoulders. The back of her shirt was emblazoned with the words: nobody rides for free!!

Then in one unreal motion she unloosed the wrap-around belt from her cut-off shorts. Shrugged her shoulders. Laughed wildly. Dropped her shorts half down to her knees. Bent over, swung out, wheeled round & wagged her freshly bared ass in a seismic Fuck Off to New Hampshire – and all the dumb shit it stands for.

Kaboom.

Guts rupture.

Bodies hit dirt.

“Oh we hate them that fucking much!!” I gasped.

Then our early morning party crew choked gleefully near to death on hairball spasms of laughter.

Some time passed before we could breathe. When we could, finally, Mommacake rolled to her feet, shook her fist eastward & said:

“There’s your Warning Shot ASSHOLES!!!”

Mom-proof blog-post Goes Astray

A question for my readers:

If you had a blog like Open Container speedWay would you give your mother the address?

I think not. For her own Good…She’s on my side. Shit she bought me my lap-top! And she knows my plight. But she surely needn’t learn the garish details.

Consider: my mother was last employed as the pastor for two Methodist parishes in central Maine.

Does she really need to know her son is a close relative to the good-time Devil himself??

My answer to the mom quandary has been to cut paste & email her when occasionally I deem a post mom-proof. Like my last — poet without equal. One swear the whole way through and not a single drug reference. No gratutitous bigotry. Came off I’d say fuck-near respectably…

So I emailed it to her — Subject: Mom-Proof Blogpost. Spliced in a few links because I wanted her to see what kind of cool folks I’ve met hanging around & blogging.

Oopsie.

Here verbatim is the resultant IM volley between Mom & me…

Mom: I have a confession to make.

me: confession??

Mom: Yeah! I found your blog.

me: ARG!!

Mom: Why ARG!!

me: Are you sure you want to read it??

Mom: Yes! and I was pretty impressed by what I did read. However, if you prefer I not read it, I won’t. I probably shouldn’t have looked for it without asking you but I did. I figured one of the links in the blog you sent would have a link to your blog, which is how I found it.

me: Like sneaking through the side-door at a Phish show!! ..how long ago?

Mom: Last night!

me: You know when I added those links I figured you’d be maybe able to find me.

Mom: So it’s ok?

me: I’ll make a cup of tea & ponder for a moment…

Mom: Aslan [my nephew/mom’s grandson] is home sick today – strep throat – and I think I’m coming down with it too. Yuck!

me: yeah everyones got the Yuck around here tooo

Mom: BTW, your formatting in a blog email doesn’t come through. Looks much more better at your blog site. How about you? Do you have the yuck?
Aslan says Hi!

me: Hi aslan!!

Mom: Anyway, if you don’t want me to read it, I won’t.
Aslan wants me to tell you we’re watching Monty Python. Do you like his stuff?

me: Me, no havey the Yuck — if I had the time & space I might come down w/something…probably enjoy it w/my own bed & a kitchen to make soup
Love monty python. Barrel of laughs

Mom: We’re about to watch the tale of Sir Lancelot. Actually, I’m not really watching it; just tuning in.

Mom: U still there?

me: yeah someone just stopped by,
Get this: my friend who just stopped by has a few hours of work for me so I’m off to do that! I’m going to help him demolish a house. Actual work…for MONEY!!

Mom: That’ll be cool! Great release too! Where are you now?

me: KC’s

Mom: I have to admit, I was awfully distressed to read that you’re going for days at a time without sleep.

me: As far as my blog goes mom…I’d love for you to read it BUT…there’s stuff on there YOU may not want to read

Mom: I love reading what you’ve written. And I fully expected I might read things you hadn’t told me.

me: On the other hand I’m proud of my blog more than anything for its honesty…my main concern about you reading it — besides making you old before your time — is that I’d feel the need to censor myself.

Mom: Due to “eavesdropping?”

me: Yeah — almost like you being right there next to me at the party I described in an earlier post where I threw my adderall up after eating LSD…that sort of thing.
Ok I’ll let you digest that. I’m off to tear a house down.

Well. One thing I learned: I will not censor my blog for my mother’s benefit. Any more than she would Praise Shrooms for my benefit when I’d go to her church sermons.

Speaking of psilocybin mushrooms — if you’re still here, Mom, I’d love for you to pop in on this post I wrote a while back. Like the folks in the described study, shrooms have been cosmically good to me.

I’ve mentioned that before. But one thing I’ve never told my Mom is:

Psilocybin mushrooms may prove miraculously beneficial to you too. Give it a prayer & some well informed thought!

Well. Mom. Hunter S. Thompson once said “You Buy the Ticket. You Take the Ride.” I think he meant things like when you sneak onto your son’s blog & next thing you know you’re praying to Jesus about whether or not to try Shrooms!

Oh & one other thing Mom: I love you. Leave a comment if you like & please stop by anytime…

Some speedWay regulars may be in shock over what they’ve just read. Not about my mom or anything. But because of the bit about me going to Work!

I shit you not — happened just like I said.

What can I say? There’s a house to be torn down. And my friend wanted to pay me to help do it. So I did. Pulled nails out of boards mostly. Worked a full-on 3 hour day!

Call me Demolition Mike E.

Praise Sweet Mother Earth for the bucket-loads of rain that make it so I can’t work today!

At long last — a hard-earned break from the daily grind. I should celebrate!

Sugar Bombs TNT & Scooby Snacks

wile-e.jpg

Think I’ll wrap this lil’ Office of National Drug Control lambaste we’ve had here up by takin ya’ll Back.

How far back?

Way the fuck back.

I’m talking cartoons on Saturday morning. Wonder Twin powers. Sugar Bomb cereal & make-believe Scooby Snacks.

Back to the early 80’s Gateway Drug dayz.

Sugar is the Gateway Drug. In my case the Gateway to Ritalin. Next thing you knew I got a mailbox on my bumper & a stolen front tire. Traded those heapin bowls of imitation processed Sugar Bomb breakfast food-style substitute in for a for a real nice psychiatrist who prescribes me my Adderall.

So there I was one Saturday with a head full of sugar & animated TNT and suddenly the TV-add wanker squawks off about the evils of fried eggs.

DUDE!! But that’s like…I mean actual breakfast!

*Mike E says Say WHAT!?*

I could go on and on but think I’ll just let the TV-add douche eater squack for himself.

So here it is ~~~ Hang on to your Open Containers there kiddoz ~~~ The first shot fired in the War on Drugs. The cracked egg heard ’round the World! Let’s make some NOIZE people for your BRAIN-ON ->drugz!!!

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WHEW! Gives me a hankerin for a cold can of Mountain Dew.

Know what: I say bring back the Drug War!

Know why?

Cause it was hallucinated oodles more fun than the War On Terror and we were winning.

Wow. If I could convert blog-posts like this into their smokable form I could bag it up & sell ’em. This is the best fun I’ve ever had writing.

Thanks in no freaking small part to you folks down there on Planet Earth who hang around this crappy joint with me. Who incidentally are, by my good estimate, a handful of the best & most exciting up&coming writers in the Cosmos.

You kids are a genuine spectacle. And so good to me!

I just remembered something: why I ever stayed awake for so long to begin with. Wasn’t because I had nowhere to sleep. Nope — I plain didn’t fuckin Wanna! What if I missed something shazammin?

Dig: I like the Feeling!!

So I’m off with it. groove:On. Do me a favor ya’ll: drive fast Stay Strange & swing yourselfs loose with a chuckle.

ps To the Googler who wanted to know: do they check for shrooms in drug screen…  Nope. Hot damn! They sure don’t.

See ya on Pluto fellow traveller dude!

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!