The memory of my first LSD trip at my old high school in Maryland stirred up some memories I had forgotten.
Charlotte Hall Military Academy had been a fixture in St. Mary's County, Maryland for 194 years when I first attended. The student body was comprised of some legacy cadets, a few local boys, some troubled kids, some kids who caused trouble, and kids parents just wanted to park somewhere out of the way. I know I felt parked that first year, but I guess I fell into the "Kids who caused trouble category". I had been booted out of the Montgomery County public system after 9th grade.
Strict military regimen was the heart and soul of the school. Life on campus followed a strict schedule. We marched, wore military uniforms, shot M-1 rifles and often marched with those rifles on a penalty track to work off demerits we had accumulated while doing what teen aged boys do, fucking off or fucking up. My first year went by uneventfully except for some minor hazing all new K-dets received their first year. I learned quickly to keep my head down. I finished that sophomore year actually looking forward to going back. I wonder now if the attraction of rules that were not fluid, not up to interpretation might have had something to do with it. The rules and punishments were clearly delineated. I knew where I stood.
The local State Police troop did not have their own indoor gun range to use. From time to time, they borrowed the one on campus located in the basement of the pool building. They would show up in cruisers and personal rides and spend an evening firing side arms.
I don't know who thought up the prank we played on them. I seem to remember Snake as the one who came up with the idea. But there were at least 3 of us who participated.
I was a junior at the time. Juniors were not allowed to smoke tobacco on campus. Getting caught smoking or possessing tobacco could mean 25 demerits; more, if we were repeat offenders. Hiding butts in packs was tough to do when inspections happened at the drop of a hat. So I began to roll my own cigarettes. I could hide the tobacco and papers easier than a carton of butts.
I also had some flavored papers for the occasional joints we might smoke. If memory serves, the ones I had were strawberry flavored, so they were red. I rolled up a few skinny tobacco filled joints. We smoked them down to roach length. Then while the State cops were busy having fun shooting up the basement of the pool building, we put the tobacco roaches under some of the windshield wipers of their cruisers.
None of us hung around to see the reaction, but the next day there was an investigation. I understand that some seniors were questioned because the range was very close to the Senior Smoker in that section of the campus. There were 2 Senior Smoking areas, one behind the New Barracks and one next to the Old Barracks and maybe 50 to 75 feet from the gun range.
I can't verify, but the rumor was, the cops had the roaches tested. Of course they tested for tobacco. The investigation closed almost as soon as it started. I hope the cops got a chuckle out of it. I know I sure did.
Later ..........................................
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Once again, thinking of a song to go with a post is finding only a blank space where inspiration usually resides.
I used to sing this song so badly off key at age 7 or 8, my parents banned me from ever singing it within their earshot. They definitely regretted allowing me to buy the 45. But damn, I was a burgeoning cowpoke. I had a six gun, a cowboy hat, and several cowboy shirts like Roy Rodgers wore. This song oozed the West I learned to love from movies and TV.
The picture is me playing stud poker with Black Bart (Pam, my baby sitter and it was probably "Go Fish").
Here is Marty Robbins and his chart topping, "El Paso".
"New Lee Highway Blues" is a blue grass song by David Bromberg. Recorded in the1970s, it is one of songs that made me a Bluegrass fan for life and a forever fan of David's. The song is about how tough living on the road while playing music gigs here, there, and everywhere. I did not appreciate the song for its lyrics until I too, went on tour driving Rock n Roll equipment from one end of this continent to the other.
Most of my job played out at night. Load out at the end of gig after midnight, drive hard and fast to the next gig to unload for a morning stage call. Grab some sleep, a few moments of fun maybe, and be back at the gig that night ready to back in the trailer and do it all over again, pounding another super slab hoping dawn comes sooner than later.
I have tried to calculate the number of gigs I hauled to, but I can't. They often just ran by in a blur while I tried to maintain control. More often than not, I needed the tour itinerary to remind where I was, where I was headed, and where I had been. It could be and often was, a mind numbing existence.
A lyric in the song succinctly sums up the grind that Touring was for me:
Nowhere to go from here but up or down the road
And nothing over there but the same goddamned town
Take home pay was pitiful, but the excitement more than made up for it. My highs and lows never again reached the intensity levels they often hit while driving for SHOWCO. The absolute joy of walking out onto a stage before the gig and looking at close to 100,000 Rock fans, then settling in behind a huge speaker stack, stage right, and hearing them roar when the Who make their entrance. Just fuckin awesome, just awesome.
The other side of the coin, being busted for cocaine and spending a week in jail. Never had I been lower than that night at the Fleetwood Mac concert in Michigan when those cop hands grabbed me, cuffed me and tossed me in the back of a squad car.
All in all, I prefer to remember the good times, but remembering the bad always reminds me the Road was a fickle bitch. I never knew what to expect. So I learned to expect it all and deal with it. The joys and pleasures of the Road along with the failures and pain keep my memories grounded in the real world, and keep my delusions of grandeur from getting out of hand.
Two plus years I did this. Two plus years I lived on truck stop food, Green room grub and the very occasional 4 or 5 star meal I would never forget. From the seedy and seamy truck stops to the penthouse high pockets lifestyle the rich Hip take for granted, I saw and experienced it all. But always, always the mind numbing experience reminded me, as I tried to locate the next hall, I might be a small cog in very big machine; without my kind, the show wouldn't go on.
Keep your Rubber Side Down and your Sunny Side Up ..............................
I opened my big mouth in a previous post, "Licking the Spoon" and one of my good Internet friends jumped on it and innocently asked in the comment section:"So, you say each (pot) smoking method is a bit different. Tell me what you find different when smoking marijuana in a pipe compared to other routes."
"Pipe" is a college professor who has been a good internet friend for twenty or so years. He has often voiced an interest in my pot consumption as he has never personally tried pot. Being a college professor, his inquisitive mind has always asked some difficult questions for me to answer. This is one. Maybe it shouldn't be, but it is.
Instead of answering him with a more comprehensive answer in the comments section, I will answer him in today's post
The Pot Culture of the America I grew up in had its beginnings in private social settings. They were private because, well, Pot was illegal and in some states getting busted could mean serious jail time. Right out of the gate, my favorite way to consume Pot was and still is with friends, enemies, strangers on the street. I love the passing of the pipe, the joint, the bong. Many times, getting high is not even the point. It is the group sharing time that pleases me.
But that does not answer Pipe's question. .... Not really.
The first time I smoked pot, it was out of a tobacco pipe Snake's Uncle Charlie had thrown away. The years old tobacco taste ruined any thought of getting high. Plus the pot turned out to not be pot, just some leaves from the woods we dried in an oven. We thought it was pot. It was not. All we got for all that effort were severe headaches.
That first experience was quickly forgotten when Snake and I bought some joints from a local kid in Bethesda. He was a Senior in high school, we were punk-ass junior high schoolers. We went over to the NIH campus across Old Georgetown road and hid in some bushes near the Chimp building to smoke. We hung out there sometimes in the summer because the Chimps were often in cages outside or rather inside with their garage doors open. They were a hoot to watch.
So my first bake was from smoking a joint. To this day, it remains my favorite. Properly rolled joints are the most convenient package to carry pot in, I only need a lighter or a book of matches to make the magic happen. There is no extraneous equipment to carry to possibly lose or break. The downside of a joint though is it is the least efficient means to get high.
Then there are pipes. Hands down, a more efficient and potentially frugal way to smoke pot. Depending on the pipe system, a small amount can hit way above its weight when compared to the same hit off a joint. There are so many variations of the pipe systems, I will just say my favorites are a simple pipe that has never had tobacco in it.
I still have quite a collection of pipes dating back to the 1960s. My favorites are the ones pictured to the right. The wooden one was given to me by a girlfriend in college. The metal one I bought at a Head Shop. Both are well over 50 years old and intended for smoking Hash, I like them because besides smoking hash with them, they are great for small pulls of pot. They are not pipes that pass around a circle well. Not enough capacity. On those occasions a joint is much better. Using a larger capacity pipe invites packing like a tobacco pipe is packed. Too much doob being burned can become less pleasant as the bowl burns down. Even if using a larger pipe, a screen inside closer to the top is advised. The taste and quality of the smoke improves dramatically.
Moving on now.
Bongs came on the scene 60 plus years ago. My first bong, I made for myself. It worked well for awhile but then I dropped it and the base plate cracked. It began to leak. There is not a much better way to deliver a lung busting hit than with a bong, if punishing your lungs seems an attractive idea. I can take or leave them; but mostly leave them. They have a level of maintenance I just cannot abide. Bong water left unchanged is the nastiest liquid on the planet. They break easily and are a bitch to clean. I still have one I bought at a head shop in Towson, Maryland back in the day. I broke it and repaired it and then put it away somewhere. I haven't been able to find it for over 30 years now. I would like to find it because it is ceramic and shaped like a dragon.
Then I guess I should mention waterpipes, or hookahs, as the hash smoking ones of the Middle East are called. Absolutely the smoothest smoking, but the least portable. I once built a 4 chamber water pipe. Why would I do that, you might ask? Well, because I could and at the time I was all about finding new ways to ingest my favorite substance. My infatuation lasted an even shorter period of time than my use of bongs.
The absolute most efficient bang for the buck ingestion of Cannabis is eating it. Not eating the buds, but the processed THC that can be extracted from it. No smoke in the lungs, no THC loss because of smoke not ingested. Hands down the healthiest way to use it, if anyone would call ingesting cannabis healthy. My wife loves the edibles I make. She gets her helping dose without any coughing. But for me, smoking a joint is the best.
It is time I buttoned this post up. I could definitely go on ... and on ... and on. If Pipe has any questions now, I will answer them in private.
Ya'll have a good day now, hear .........................
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There are a gajillion songs about smoking Cannabis. The earliest song I know of and like is Cab Calloway's "Reefer Man" recorded in 1932. But my absolute favorite song about pot is "Don't Bogart that Joint", originally recorded by Fraternity of Man that was used in the movie, "Easy Rider".
I once listened to Iron Butterfly's, "IN- A-GADDA-DA-VIDA" over and over and over ..... and over while I tripped on LSD for the first time. It was the Spring of 1969. I was16, almost 17. I don't remember them now, but I had thoughts I was positive would change the world. ....... Okay, so what if I forgot them as soon as I came down. At least I touched base with their greatness for a few hours.
Psychedelics did change me. I spent many days during the next few years high on Acid, Psilocybin, or Peyote, whose psychoactive ingredient is Mescaline.
There was a period Snake and I took many trips in a row. We had bought 300 hits of Purple Micro Dot at 25 cents a hit. Our base price was 75 cents a hit or 3 hits for 2 bucks. And some, er actually a lot of some, we gave away. We put a bit of cash back in our pockets and ate the rest like candy. They lasted quite awhile. Towards the end of the supply, we had built up a tolerance so high, it took 8 or 9 hits to get us off. They were not as powerful per hit as say, the Orange Barrels or Strawberry Acid floating around at the time. For first time trippers or the weekend warriors, we recommended a 2 or 3 hit dose.
The chip on my shoulder I had carried for so long as a very angry punk seemed to fall by the wayside once I began to eat acid. Yeah, I credit those experiences for calming me down some. Made the transition from trouble maker to a productive adult in the future go a lot smoother.
I remember clearly how the music of "IN- A-GADDA-DA-VIDA" created colors in waves ( I found soon, they were called "trails") that followed my hand movements and sync'd so well with the beat of the song. It was awesome.
Never had I seen the world through such a different lens. I wore my face out laughing and grinning so much. in order to regain some control, I went outside behind the barracks. I remember getting on my hands and knees with my face inches away from an ant hill. I watched those little bastids for what seemed like forever. All the while, "IN- A-GADDA-DA-VIDA" continued to blast through the open window in Snake's room on the ground floor of the New Barracks at Charlotte Hall Military Academy.
Playing this 17 minute tune for several hours was a physical experience I was able to repeat with other songs while on Acid. But never was the impact more guttural and soul shaking as that first trip listening to Iron Butterfly.
The last times I tripped were in the early 1990s. I was rummaging around some old stuff from my days as a single man. I found a hit and a half of some Orang Barrels I had stashed from a bigger batch I had bought in the mid 1970s. I split them with Bill on July 4th. I figured their potency would be off as they were almost 20 years old at that point. I was pleasantly surprised. Bill and I got wasted so hard, all we could do was walk around the celebrations and milling crowds down in Sanford. I am sure we had goofy looks on our faces. Since I owned a bike shop in town, I was always running into customers and their kids. I remember laughing quite a bit. No one asked if I was alright, so I guess we hid our condition pretty well.
Bill never tripped again. He enjoyed it, but it was more of a bucket list item for him. One and done.
I was not quite done with psychedelics yet. I think it was the next summer when a friend and I went mountain bike touring up around Flagstaff Lake in the Carrabassett Valley, up country Maine. My friend brought some Psilocybin mushrooms, or "Shrooms" as they are referred to by the tragically hip. It was an awesome time, though not quite as intense as the previous LSD experience at the 4th of July party on and around Number One Pond in Sanford.
I have been thinking more and more about ways to cope with the madness that currently has our country by the short hairs. One thought would be to escape. The option of a physical escape is out of the question. I love my country too much. I could escape into the darkest depths of depression that are always lurking around my corners. But no, that is a misery I will do almost anything to avoid. Then I thought about my days of carefree existence. The days when I wasn't angry; the days when I didn't feel trapped by the many chains out there that look to hook us up. Those were the days I experienced an altered state I now wonder why I stopped.
I can think of no better time in my life than now. I am retired and am not overly concerned about having a bad trip as when I was young, numb and new to the drug. I never did have a freak out kind of bad trip. I always kept at least a pinky or toe in the real world. I would expect, should I do it again, my reaction would be the same.
It's time to get back on that wagon. .......... Wish me luck.
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The only song that will do of course for today's post is the full version of Iron Butterfly's, "IN- A-GADDA-DA-VIDA". If I close my eyes hard, I can still sometimes see hints of the trails I was so fond of back in the day.
Yellow Dawg Granny or YDG, as she was sometimes referred to during the height of the Blog fad, was a force of nature. Get on her bad side and well, she could be brutal. She passed recently. When exactly, I do not know. I do know she will be missed by many folks out here in the Internet ether.
Her real name was Jackiesue. She was a good friend of 20 years or so. I could count on her to tell me truths and have my back out here in the World Wide Web. I pissed her off once. I felt her anger for sure. But she forgave me and all was right again.
Jackiesue and I shared a common childhood. We were both military brats. We spent different times on the some of the same bases. Jackiesue was I think, 7 or 8 years older than I am.
"Fire and Rain", by James Taylor always makes me puddle up. Seems it is my go to song when someone I cared about leaves this mortal coil. Whenever I hear it, snapshots of folks from my life will flash through my mind like they are riding ponies on a carousel.
Erin, Bean, Snake, Uncle Herb, Brother Joe, Mom, Dad, Buzzy, Andre, Granny, and now Jackiesue joins the gang on that merry go round. As their faces pass by and fade, I sit for a spell saddened. Then my heart will lift. I know ..... I just know since I will never forget them, they will never truly be gone.
There are some of us who have always stood up for others and some of us who have only stood up for ourselves.
Then there's the rest of us, never really sure which way to go
And that's just sad
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This is the variation of a thought that came to me for a comment on someone's Facebook post. I have expanded it to include myself. I would love to claim the high ground of standing up for others, but well, I have failed from time to time to be that guy. I can also remember a time when selfish interests ruled and I knew I should have been more considerate.
And now, after so many years of inconsistent support for those who needed it, I have begun to speak out more, donate more, and most important, try to recognize what personal actions I can change that would benefit others without being judgmental or attaching any debt to my help.
I know now that help saturated in pity will often make the situation worse. People generally do not want to be pitied. They can become resentful. They may need help. They may even want it. But when it is waved in their face, often it causes them to draw back from it.
It would be easy for me to sit back at 72 years old and not give a shit about anything or anyone. It would be a logical step after becoming a card carrying Old Fart. But It makes less sense now to not care than it did when I was in the middle of the busy productive part of my life.
Whether it is a good idea or not, I have been doing a lot of reflecting these days. I have the time now to reflect on years past; the triumphs, the failures, the moments of pleasure and pain. And though it has been my position that I have no regrets, well, that is probably just some Bullshit I tried to fool myself with.
I used to passively deny regrets with, "There are things I would have done differently." Who am I fooling? That means regret; no getting around it. Thankfully, any regrets I harbor are shoved aside by the overwhelming wave of the things I did that I did not regret. I am pretty much happy with my performance as a human so far. Now, I want to see if I can clean up the rough edges I developed as I wore myself out making it paycheck to paycheck over the years.
I need to stop now. The Reflecting Pool is beginning to ripple. Besides, Maggie needs to go out to pee.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .............................................
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I spent more time finding a tune for this post than I usually spend I guess. Or I just became frustrated and impatient sooner than usual. Regardless, I chose a Nickelback tune, "When We Stand Together" for the music to listen to when reading this post. Hope you like it. I did.
Whether or not the current Stupor Bowl Champs, the Philadelphia Eagles, will visit the White House is currently at the top of an over bloated news stream filled with issues that should not mean squat in the scheme of how screwed up this country is at the moment.
The Eagles declined the visit after winning the Stupor Bowl in 2018. Of course catcalls of "unpatriotic, disrespect of the President, blah blah,blah" rained down from the Right, proving they can be more the classic Karen than any Libtard ever was.
This year a meme I saw on Facebook unequivocally claimed the owner of the Eagles has declined another visit to the White House. I checked it out and the claim might be putting the cart before the horse. Well, the White house is claiming no invitation has been declined, as the White House has yet to even invite the Eagles, but they plan to they say.
So, here we are with another issue the White House is stringing out to their benefit. Another issue that adds more confusion to the overall confusion they are so skillful at creating.
But, to what end?
I have decided that the Assholes holding our country hostage do have a plan. This hoopla over the Eagles is a miniscule part of their dissemination of lies and fear which in the end will hopefully create the nation the Winger Clowns have been circle jerking over for the last 50 years at least.
They can see the goal line. They will not let up now.
But I am optimistic they will fail again. Their track record of winning the war over the Left is filled with some battles won, but the War is hardly over. When the big battles happened in the past, more often than not they have failed because of their short-sighted approach and knee jerked decisions that had no clue of the possible unintended consequences.
Hopefully this new Clown Parade will fall flat on its face again. That is a repetition of a history I would so enjoy witnessing.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ....................................
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Okay, the music I picked for this post was done with little consideration. I decided this post deserved a Metal tune .... A Heavy, Heavy Metal Tune. Here is "Bow down to the Clowns", by ONSLAUGHT. A little heavier than I usually like, but it did get my attention. Be cautious with the volume.
I have always admired the ability to think up riddles. My dad had that ability. He used to twist my brain every chance he had with the latest one he had thought up or one he had discovered that he thought was worthy.
I can only remember besting him once as a kid. I was grade school age, maybe 7 or 8 when he asked me:
"What is supposed to arrive, but never does?"
My brother just recently reminded me that this is how I first heard this question. He was at the dinner table that night when Dad asked it. All this time I remembered it not initially as a riddle, but something he just declared. My brother remembers because he couldn't guess the answer either.
After too many moments leaving us hanging, Dad said:
"Tomorrow never arrives. By the time it is Tomorrow, it is Today."
We all chuckled or more likely groaned. I wasn't able to shake the point; it bothered me. I knew damn well Tomorrow arrived. It was one of the certain truths I had filed away early in my life. Anything that was supposed to happen always started out as a statement regarding the future, which in my mind meant tomorrow.
I kept straining my brain to figure out how to prove that riddle wrong. It took quite awhile. We had moved and I was in another school , so at least 6 or 7 months. I finally had my Eureka moment and confronted my father with my conclusion that disproved the conclusion of the riddle, that "Tomorrow never Arrives".
"Tomorrow does arrive. Today is Yesterday's Tomorrow"
He was dutifully impressed. Though I think he might have been more impressed with my tenacious attitude of trying to one up him than the answer I came up with.
I only bring up this exchange with my father because of my life long love/hate relationship with riddles. I have solved a few, but most of the time it seems I was unable or unwilling to waste the band width in my brain solving them.
Then this morning as I filled water jugs, a riddle came to me that I think may be my one and only original riddle.
I have 6 empty jugs. I filled all 6, yet 5 remain empty. How is that possible?
It's a light weight riddle I am sure. But I have to start somewhere........ Right?
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I am constantly surprised how many songs the are under the Sun for every damn thing under the Sun. Here is "The Riddle" by Five for Fighting, another previously unknown group to me. Excellent piano. I always like good piano.
The message is right for my current state of mind. Maybe it contains messages we should all have in mind:
There are secrets that we still have left to find
There have been mysteries from the beginning of time
Yeah, that's me stylin in my white tube socks and skin tight cycling shorts. I was on a round the lake, 3 day mountain bike excursion up country Maine. I went there with my good friend J. There are many beautiful places in the world. Flagstaff Lake and the Bigelow area around the lake is certainly one of them.
But I didn't come here to replay a camping trip from 30 years ago. I have no plans to discuss my ability to disregard fashion with such laughter inducing flare. No, I came here to write about socks. Not just any socks, but all socks, which include my favorite for years, the ambidextrous tube sock. Cheap, dependable, and no other sock on the planet can hold a candle to the tube sock when it comes time to choose a sock to use as a sock puppet for that darling little rug muncher wearing the stinky diapers who is trying to let you know she's in need of a change, but instead, you make her a sock puppet.
Like most Western World inhabitants, socks, or sox, if you'd like, are an almost obligatory, there is no other acceptable option, article of clothing. Yeah, they have their uses for sure. They keep our feet warm, sometimes keep them dry, and if you have dogs, they often will entertain your pet for hours with one you thought you lost in the laundry. But the most insidious and evil use of socks is as a gift under the Christmas tree or in the Stocking hanging on the mantle.
I did not accept socks as a child, nor shoes for that matter. Up until the idea of shoes and socks had finally been forcibly infused into my soul at around age 6, I tended to lose one, the other, or both of them on a regular basis. It was first grade on Hickam Air Force Base , Hawaii, the final straw had broken that poor camel's back. I was sent home to either retrieve or find some footwear to wear at school. I do believe that was the first time I was ever in trouble at school....... Uh no, wait. .... The first time was in Kindergarten in Japan when I accidentally set off the fire alarm. Boy, did that create a fracas. I was not sent home, but I was detained until my mom came to get me.
Uh, sorry 'bout that. Got a tad off the trail I was trying to beat.....
So I have laid the groundwork for my love , but mostly hate relationship with footwear. Of course after I had finally given up open resistance to footwear, I joined the rest of the world I knew and fell into line. I began to look forward to new shoes and socks, especially ones I wanted, not ones my parents wanted.
Wanting specific styles of socks and shoes began in earnest when I was hard into puberty and trying to fit in and meet girls. The cool kids at Mark Twain Junior High sported the "Click look"; Shirts with button down collars, khaki pants, Penny loafers and most important of all, Adler wool socks that matched the day's shirt color. Yeah, we knew hip like it was part of our DNA.
Then came my period of uninspired footwear. I took to wearing shoes and socks for utilitarian purpose. I wore dress shoes for those dress up moments, work boots for those work moments, and no shoes or socks if I chose when I was on my own time. Tube socks became my default sock. I went through them like corn through a goose.
Life moved on until I discovered that Mountain Biking had finally come out of it's Hill Billy purpose oriented clothing and some style finally found it. It was the advent of the statement sock; socks that shared something about you to the world. From whimsical to outrageous clashes that hurt the eyes. Socks became a pallet upon which one could flaunt their disregard for propriety. For me it was my lizard socks. Still have them safely out of eyesight in a sock drawer.
I am in my 70's now. Over 6 years ago I made what is, I am pretty sure, an almost positive decision on my choices in foot wear for the rest of my time in this world. Socks are out. Totally out. I have not worn a sock in a shoe for over 6 years. The reason is not political, not belligerent, it is a decision made because it is just too fuckin hard and painful to put the damn things on anymore.
Yet, with the advent of chronic gout as part of my life now, I accept that shoes will be needed more than ever. I wear shoes, but no socks. I thought at first I would miss them. Seems I don't, But every so often I still hanker for a fresh new pair of tube socks.
Catch Ya'll on the Flip Side ...........................
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I know it is not Christmas, but this song about socks was the best I could do on such short notice. Here is "Socks", by JD McPherson. A clever little jazz number that made me smile. I always hated getting clothing for Christmas except the sweaters my aunt used to knit for me.
Ever since smoking my first joint in the 1960s, I have always enjoyed ingesting Pot, Hooch, the Doob, in all of its various choices and manifestations.
Smoking Pot in pipes, hookas, bongs, waterpipes, rolled joints, rolled blunts and eating it all have their individual appeals. Each delivery system seems to bring with it a differing kind of high.
The majority of the time, I smoke joints or blunts. Only over the last five years have I begun to eat it on a semi regular basis.
Very rarely over the last 60 years or so, have I turned my back on an opportunity to get high. A chance encounter with an old friend, spark up a doob dude. Some stranger passes you a joint, take a pull and pass it on. That has been the pot experience I have tried to maintain these past many years.
My first experience eating cannabis was not the pleasant experience I had imagined it would be. All the hip Freaks said the best highs came from eating it. Brownies were the popular vehicle to use. In 1970-71, I shared rented townhouse off Perring Parkway in Towson, Maryland. My roommates, Bean, Bebop and I decided it was time to try marijuana brownies.
We sifted out all the seeds we had accumulated from the few pounds of pot we had bought over the previous months and ground the stems up. With each grind, we removed as much of the fur and chaff as possible. When we had the pile of pot powder to a point we thought might be edible, we took all of it and mixed it into 2 or 3 store bought brownie mixes.
By that time in our college lives, we were all decent cooks and the brownies came out perfect. After they had cooled, Bean cut them up into squares. I will always remember the shock of biting into that first brownie. I looked at Bean and Bebop and their faces looked like I felt. These were the worst brownies I had ever eaten. They were sweet and all, but it was like eating small hay bales. The three of us, with some serious help from milk out of the fridge, managed to eat that first one.
Before we ate any more, we discussed just how many we thought we would need to eat to get a buzz. At this point I am sure none of us wanted to eat many more. Bean and Bebop decided they could handle one more and then wait to see what happened. Because I was always the smartest one of the trio, I decided it would take more than two, so I ate two more for a running total of three.
A half an hour later, we still had not felt the buzz we were sure was coming. BeBop said he was done and he went upstairs. Bean decided he could handle one more. Again, because I was the smartest one, I ate two more for a total of 5. After an hour, neither Bean nor I thought we were feeling any buzz. Bean said he was done and rolled a joint. I ate one more because well, I was the smartest one of the three of us.
Okay. More minutes pass. Bean says he thinks he is feeling the pot, but because he smoked part of a joint, he is not sure if it was the brownies or the joint. I am sure I am not getting off, but the thought of another mini hay bale in my mouth was too much. I told Bean to pass the joint. Just as I finished exhaling that first toke, the brownies kicked in.
I do not remember anything of substance from that moment until about 30 hours later when I woke up on my bed with no clothes on except my shoes and suffering the worse case of desert mouth I can remember ever having. My stoned condition continued into the next day, but at least I could function. Bean said I had slept for over 24 hours.
I never ate Pot brownies again until I began baking them for my wife in 2017 when she was going through chemotherapy. This time I did it right. I extracted Hash oil out of some of my bud and came up with a recipe that has no obnoxious taste and is easy to properly dose as I cut the brownies into 10 gram pieces. BA uses one or one and a half to help her sleep. Me, because I still ingest Pot for fun, I eat four to get a good bake on and still have an ability to function. Any more than 4 and it is a crap shoot whether I can function or become a mumbling fool.
Which brings me to the crap shoot that is licking the bowl and spoon after putting the two batches of brownies in the oven. There are no conveniently separated 10 gram pieces to pick just the right number for a predictable result. No, licking the bowl means my day from that point on may or may not be mine to control.
I actually started this post while the brownies baked and just after licking the bowl. I left entirely too much mix in the bowl. Mistake? Hmm...... Maybe, maybe not. All I know is I lost the rest of the day. Instead of tying up various loose ends, I created new ones to confuse my next day with.
No worries. Retirement is all about being free to do nothing and being happy with the result.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................
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I have been waiting for an excuse to use this song for a post. "California Sober" by Billy Strings and Willie Nelson. The song has it all, great pickin, great grinnin and the harmony is something special. Play it loud and stomp your feet.
For you folks who have more than a passing interest in our solar system, it was 95 years ago today that Pluto was discovered and became a card carrying member in good standing in the planetary circle we call our solar system.
I am not sure what Pluto did to fall out of favor, but it must have done something that pissed off the IAU (International Astronomical Union). After 74 years of faithful and loyal service, in 2006, Pluto was unceremoniously demoted and kicked out of the cool planet club.
A probable scenario might have been about a mealy mouthed astronomer from the ghettoes of Berkeley, Stanford or maybe Harvard who wanted attention. He or she took it out on poor Pluto at some hi falutin hoe down the IAU threw every year. The claim was "... it didn't meet the definition of a planet".
...... Right..... Yesterday it was a planet. Today it isn't?
So technically I guess, there was a ceremony of sorts, one meant to drive home the shame and embarrassment of being told you are not cool enough anymore to still hang with the Big Kids. But hey, you still get to sit close by .
There was another birth in 1930. 1930 was the year Walt Disney introduced the world to Pluto, his ever lovable and loyal fuck up of a dog. I thought at first, one was named for the other. Apparently it was a coincidence. The IAU claimed they wanted to continue the time honored tradition of using Ancient Roman Gods and named the new planet Pluto, god of the Underworld.
Walt explained his choice of Pluto goes back to when he was young spending time on a farm. There were farm dogs everywhere. His favorite dog was named Pluto.
Hmm. ............... Yeah, ..Hmm.............. Just a coincidence they say? Nah, don't buy it.
I cannot recollect who said it, but I am almost sure it has been said at the least a few times at the least.
"There are no consequences, it's all of the plan."
Somewhere, somewhen, some future, this will or is already part of a very dark conspiracy made up so someone can feel worse than they did before they read it the first time.
I call it feeding their Goth.
Later .................................................
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I figured a Goth tune might be on target here. I checked some out and decided on a hybrid Goth song. Originally written and recorded by Nine Inch Nails, here is "Hurt" with Johnny Cash covering it better than the original. This song became his Eulogy. It was recorded months before he passed.
Some years ago I became interested in my family history. Like so many new interests for me, it ran its course and I moved on. I had researched what early times I could locate for both sides of my family. There was more to find regarding my father's side than Mom's. Then I found a pocket dictionary published in 1904 that belonged to my great grandmother, Mrs. E.T. Roberts. The dictionary was one of many pocket dictionaries that her husband, my great grandfather bought to hand out to customers of his feed, seed, flour and coal store. The front cover was an ad, the back cover was an ad, and inside the back cover, another ad. He wanted to make sure they knew where they got this free dictionary.
The history of my father's side I traced back to the mid 1600's when the first Roberts hooked up with William Penn and took the Quaker craze from England to Pennsylvania. The first Roberts was land granted huge tracts of land to the west of Philadelphia.
Harsh times befell many of the Quakers before and during the Revolutionary war because of their no violence, we are peace freaks, and will not join you war types. My great, great, great grandfather was hanged for supposed treasonous collusion with the Red Coats. It was odd though. About fifteen years later the Feds gave back some of the seized properties and a annual pension to his widow with a letter apologizing for the mistake. You can read about it Here, and then again Here.. Two differing versions. The fog of war always hides the real truth.
The history I could find on Mom's side started in New England around 1840 or so when a great great grandfather hurriedly left the area under a suspicious cloud of some kind. He ended up in San Francisco and became one of the original "49ers", the nickname given to the early settlers out in the San Francisco area. He became a ship's chandler and ships carver. I have a table carved by him . A ship figurehead he carved that I thought was in the San Francisco Maritime Museum, actually ended up gracing a garden in New Jersey.( Read about that here)
So, it appears that I have long established roots in Pennsylvania; the Germantown area being Ground Zero. I would love to swing by before I croak to check out what still remains of any family connections. I know a house owned by a great, great grandfather is still standing and there are various family graves scattered over southern Pennsylvania. Maybe it is time to actually lay eyes on them.
And it is possible that I am related to the asshole who sold my father the house I live in now. His last name was Lovejoy. My great great grandfather Lovejoy was chased out of this part of New England back in Mid 19th century. I do not care if I am related to the Lovejoy who sold my family this house in the mid - 1960s. He was a class A jerk.
So there it is, another effort to demystify my ancestral past. I do not have proof of much of it, but with the proof I do have, the assumptions made cannot be too far off.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................
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After another frustrating search for an appropriate tune, at the last moment before I just picked a song from my favorites, I stumbled on "Family Tree", by the Crisptones. I have never heard of the Crisptones. It seems I have never heard of many bands. The tune and voice reminds me of James Taylor. Very nice song. Volume? Well for once, loud would be too much I think. Moderate to soft; it's that kind of song.
During the last two weeks of October, I was overwhelmed by a horde of the tiny, no see um kind of ticks. They were so small, the only way to spot them was by careful scrutiny. I could not feel them crawling around. I ended up with 3 bites that became ugly for a time. It is February now and thankfully, I do not appear to have suffered any long term effects; this time anyway.
I hate ticks. I am not scared of them, I just fucking hate them. Twice now in the last decade, I have had to deal with two tick borne illnesses. The repercussions had a major impact on my overall health for, oh, I guess the last 7 years. Combined with having had Covid, I am just now beginning to feel better. Other than the chronic fatigue that still lingers, and the fact I am an Old Fart, I am beginning to feel like my old self.
Well, "feeling like my old self" is relative I guess. Maybe it is more of a situation that I imagine I am "feeling like my old self". And that is all that matters. If I learned anything this last election cycle, it is if you repeat a lies long enough, they are liable too become accepted facts.
I originally sat down intent on writing about History. Not the actual content of our History, rather the manipulation of History by a wide variety of people and special interests who want to create the future they hope for by altering perceptions of present tense events as they unfold. It seems it is easier to twist the Reality of the Present than adjust it later.
Today, History is being written by a hodge podge of Lunatics, Conspiracists, Political Partisans, and a growing number of AI contributors. Even past history is being re-written by the new idiots and nincompoops with an eye to the new twists about the future they have wet dreams over. It is nothing new, but today, it is not just tiresome, it is completely out of control.
Since the Gilded Age of the 1870's, 1880's and 1890's when America's first real oligarchs became the power behind the politics, the manipulations of facts and truths have never been more egregious until now. It's interesting that the Gilded Age and the Age of Trump are both occurring during huge populist movements. The Rockefellers, the Mellon's, the JP Morgan's had the power and used the media they owned to convince their wage slave Americans how well off they were.
Manipulating History has been around since we humans began flocking together. With the advent of the Internet, controlling history, past and present, has never been more insidious and damaging as it is now. And it has never been easier to accomplish. It is a huge mistake and naïve to continue to rely on history to honestly cover just the basics of an event. I am now calling what passes for History on the Internet, "Anti-History".
It was the introduction of "Alternative Facts" during the Orange Felon's first term that kicked the "Anti-History" trend of today into overdrive. That "Anti-History" is now again cruising at warp speed is no coincidence. The unadulterated facts of the events that got us to the here and now are being lost, tossed, changed or ignored purposefully to affect the short term goals of some really evil people.
This purposeful elimination of facts from our mutual historical and present day records seems to have staying power. The Internet has given the lazy, greedy smallminded sociopaths of the world, the chance to make up their own historical record that personifies and satisfies their emotional self serving view of the world. We have begun to not only construct our own realities. We are believing our twists on reality as true just because we believe in them. Facts no longer matter.
It boggles my mind how stupid the collective "we" have become because of the technology we have embraced.
There is hope I guess. Maybe when we are tired of creating a doomsday future in our minds, we will find a way to appreciate what we have instead of inventing the nightmare world we fantasized about.
Keep the skiff upright ...............................
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Lately I have been creating playlists on YouTube. It has been very easy and seamless to create random lists while also creating specific lists of groups or genres. Yesterday and today, I have been collecting tunes by "Ferocious Dog", a folk punk(?) group from across the Big Pond. They mix a punk attitude into an engaging Celtic / Sea Shanty style. Lots of violin, guitars, and some Scottish pipes. These guys have definitely found a way to re-introduce really old genres with fresh messaging for today. They are extremely political. Here is a two-Fer , "American Dream" and "Fake News".
Playing it loud is recommended for full effect. But it is up to you.
No one except Mike remembers when George first stopped by the Blue Diner on East Avenue. It was over a year ago when Mike was just gearing up to start his day. He noticed a bearded man wearing a tattered Red Sox cap who seemed to be waiting for the doors to open. Mike opened the door.
"You're a brave man wearing that cap in this town bub."
George smiled.
"Yeah I guess so.....You got Internet hook up?"
Every week day from then until last week, George would show up at 5:30 AM and park his butt at the same table facing East Avenue. While Mike fetched his coffee and a Danish, George would reach into the tired messenger bag he always carried and either pull out a laptop or the Daily News. George would nurse the coffee and sometimes eat the Danish.
George wasn't much for conversation. His name and the fact he came from somewhere near Boston originally was about all Mike learned about him those first few weeks. He did not ask questions. If George wanted to share, he would share.
Winnie, Mike's wife and nosy waitress, could not stand it. She had to know everything about the regulars. George had been coming in awhile now. It was time to stop the indifferent treatment the walk-ins received. One morning she was re-filling his coffee cup. George was paying her no mind. His fingers were busy on the keyboard of his laptop.
She finished filling his cup. Instead of moving on, she stood with the coffee pot in one hand, the other hand parked insolently on her hip, and stared over her glasses at him. Her intimidating presence finally broke George's concentration and he looked up at her.
"So George, what is it you do here in New York?"
She sat down in the seat across the table from him. George straightened, adjusted his glasses and looked across the table at Winnie.
"I'm a staff reporter over at the Journal."
Winnie leans in. “Been there long?”
“Well no. Just started a couple of months ago.”
“What does a staff reporter at the Journal do?”
George's brows furrowed. He is not sure if he should answer; not sure whether it’s any of her business. Just then Mike tunes up.
“Oh don’t mind her George. If she’s poking in your business, it means she likes you. Tell her to pound sand.”
Winnie shoots Mike the look. He grins, and goes back to stacking coffee cups. Flinging Mike a final dark look, Winnie stops the interrogation, gets up to continue her round of coffee refills.
Some minutes later, George stands. At the register he pays his bill. He turns to leave and stops. Turning back around, he says to Winnie, “A staff reporter writes the crap no one else wants to.” And he walks out the door.
Winnie turns to Mike, sticks out her tongue and flips him the bird.
Days turn into weeks, weeks into months. George became a fixture at the Blue Diner. His background began to come to light through short conversations and casual remarks. An ex-reporter for the Boston Globe, he came to New York City after an ugly divorce. He had lost the house, his boat and worst of all, his ex, out of spite, took his dog. By all indications though, George was happier now. Or so he claimed.
Last week George sat at his usual table. Mike was sitting on a stool at the counter watching the city go to work. A woman walked by and stopped in front of George’s table. She knocked on the window to catch his attention. They looked at each other through the glass. She hurried inside and sat down at his table. A tense, hushed discussion followed. After she left, George quickly stood and headed to the register. Winnie asked who she was.
" My ex. She finally found me. I'm fucked now."
"What do you mean George?"
George stared at his change and mumbled, "Never mind. See ya later."
Winnie was suspicious. Just how acrimonious was their divorce? She decided to drop the dime before his ex did. She didn't care what Mike thought.
George left that morning and was never seen in the Blue Diner again.
A few days later Mike was refilling sugar jars and watching the early morning news. George had been found floating in the East River. He had been beaten severely and garroted. The news story went on to say that speculation was he had been tracked down and killed for a series of articles he wrote in the Boston Globe about Mob activities in Rhode Island. Police were investigating.
Mike turned to Winnie.
"I thought we agreed to not make that call."
She looked at Mike.
"We need a vacation. Now we can afford one."
Mike frowned, shrugged and thought:
"Damn women. When they're right, they're right."
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"George" - Flash Fiction / Changed the title to "The Blue Diner"
Originally written in the 1st person on 3/12/2010
Re-write - changed it to 3rd person
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What music goes with betrayal. Apparently too many tunes to count. Now to sift through some .......... Shit. After too many tastes, I gave up on the betrayal association. I chose "songs about diners" and finally.........
I found or is it I remembered a tune by Tom Waits about a diner. Here is Tom Waits with "Eggs and Sausage", off his album, "Nighthawks at the Diner".
If I want to write more often, I need to find a solution when nothing to write about comes to mind ...... my mind can become a crippled blank and no amount of doob, alcohol, or other stimulants will bring me out of my funk.
It it pisses me off that when neither pen, paper, nor computer are nearby, I can think of a hundreds topics as I move through my day. Then I sit down determined to write, I stare at the blank screen, which I guess is akin to contemplating one's navel, sitting pool side in a lounge chair. A mushy void develops between the ears and numbness clogs the synapses.
The other time I think of topics is in the middle of writing the topic I came to write at the moment. I used to shine them on. I would often remember them, but only after I had left the computer and was doing something else.
Now when I sit down to write, if another topic or twist on the topic comes to mind, I write a few hints on another page to re-inspire me when nothing seems all I have. I just started the new page a week ago and there are already 20 -30 prompts saved to it. I may never expand on all of them, but it's nice to know they are there when I find myself stranded in the black hole I call, the "No Write Zone".
Later .............................
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I chose Soundgarden's " Black Hole Sun", not because its lyrics are relevant, but because they are not. When I am stuck reving my engines and going nowhere, nothing I think of seems relevant. I often feel I have fallen into an empty black hole.
I ran across the meme below on Facebook the other day. My opinion is it's Bullshit. From what I can tell, the Internet has not raised the collective intelligence or awareness of the population. Instead of asking Aunt Linda, now they ask Aunty Internet where a much higher quantity of misinformation exists than in old Aunt Linda's brain.. After a career of selling and fixing bicycles, It is obvious to me now many youngsters don't want information. They want to be entertained. Facts and Truth are no longer relevant in many lives of the young.
Anyone who allowed themselves to constantly be misinformed into adulthood, is most likely going to be that same person today. The same reason for self inflicted Dumassery back in the day still rings true today. ....... Lazy intellects enabled by older lazy intellects.
If I asked my parents a question they felt I could have found the answer for myself, they would say something like, "What are all these dictionaries, atlases, almanacs and encyclopedias for? Look it up."
The meme is a poorly thought out assumption; an unfair generalization from a one dimensional digital mind passing judgement on the analog minds that came before. If anything, Aunty Internet has caused a measurable drop in Humanity's overall IQ. Aunty Internet has made us dumber.
I would like to see the generations of children and adults raised with Aunty Internet function without her. I guarantee I could do without her if I had to. I still know how to open a book, tell time on a windup analog clock , and which end of a shovel to put in my hands without watching a video.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................................
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Today's tune has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do the subject of the post. I completely forgot, lost touch, lost track of this great Steely Dan tune. It is off their "Pretzel Logic" album. Here is "East St. Louis Toodle oo".
My good friend K is not a fan of the Doors. He had some mealy mouthed excuse I don't remember. That's okay. I don't particularly care for some of the bands he likes. It's the way of the world.
We were heading to the Kingdom Trails in Vermont; must have been over a decade ago at least. We were going to ride trails til we gave out or the trails did. "Roadhouse Blues" came on the radio. I reached over and cranked it up to WOW. Before K could turn the volume down, I had a big fat doob pulled out and was firing it up. He looked at me. Not sure what he was thinking, but I said:
"It's a long ago rule cast in stone, that if "Roadhouse Blues" comes on, a joint is found if one is around to be found and the highest volume available is cranked."
He went back to watching out where we were going. He was driving after all. I took a huge hit and tried to pass it to him.
K looked back at me and waved the joint off. He didn't try to turn the music down; he went back to watching the highway. I shrugged and took another monster hit and rocked out.
I guess it was after my 3rd or 4th hit, K turned. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. He reached for the joint with his index finger signaling it was his turn with the doob. I handed it over. We both were rocking now. We rocked hard until the song ended. K handed me what was left of the joint. It was nothing but a roach. I had forgotten "Roadhouse Blues" was 4 minutes long.
Smoking Pot and Mountain Biking are inextricably entwined. The origins of the current sport of Mountain Biking can be traced to California in the 1970s. A group known as the Lakespur Canyon Gang began regular rides on Mt. Tamalpais (Mt Tam) in the Lakespur and Baltimore Canyon in Marin County, north of San Francisco. A bunch of stoners looking for some fun while they baked themselves into oblivion is how I heard it from some folks who actually were at least on the fringes of that original crew.
I met Tom Ritchey, owner of Ritchey Bikes at a bike expo in Philly in 1989 I think it was, I asked him about the pot smoking. He didn't know me so he just smiled and admitted there were some guys who smoked pot. I met another one of the originals, Charlie Cunningham and shared beers at the same expo. He agreed, Pot was an integral part of the fun for sure.
Charlie went on to be a partner with Steve Potts and Mark Slate in creating WTB (Wilderness Trail Bikes) in 1980. They started out making components and eventually began to produce frames. I still have a brand new WTB "Phoenix" frame with a very rare one off special Charlie Cunningham designed rear brake on it. I do not know what it is worth, but I am guessing some significant dollars for sure. They had a very limited run of frames with the correct bosses for those brakes.
I bought my first mountain bike in 1986. I entered my first race in 1987. I became a full time bicycle mechanic at "The Spokesperson" that same year, and in 1988 I became a partner. But it was in the summer of 1971, the rule about the song was created. I was packed into a VW Bug with 4 other stoners (We called ourselves "Freaks" back then) We were on the Washington, DC beltway weaving in and out of traffic without a care in the world and the song came on. The rest is history.
Just another case of how the Hell did we not kill ourselves back then, I will never know.
Later Gators ........................................
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After all that writing, at least the tune has been well determined. Here is "Roadhouse Blues", by the Doors. Be sure to spark one up if one is available and crank the volume to WOW!
