It's dark thirty in the morning. The leg cramps I have been dealing with since trying to sleep for the last 4 or 5 hours finally beat me down. Okay, Okay, I'm up for chrissakes. But what to do?
After so many years on the planet, I still have trouble paying attention to some Life Lessons. Hydration is one of them. I try to be good and keep pounding down the water, but sometimes like yesterday, I totally ignored water and all it could do for me if I just took a drink once in awhile.
But that's what cramps are for I guess; to remind me in an instant of agonizing wakefulness of how repetitively stupid I was.
"You dumb ass, you did not drink enough water yesterday and now look at your sorry ass self; your face all twisted up, your legs locked, toes locked, and what's worse you had been enjoying a really really cool dream."
My brain snorted derisively and finished, "Might as well get up asshole, you ain't sleeping comfortable anymore this night."
I rush to the kitchen knowing that sucking down water now will have no immediate effect on the cramps. This evil cycle will have to play itself out. "But definitely take a drink dimwit, the water will eventually ease your pain.... sometime tomorrow". I could hear my mind chortling in the background.
I had to chuckle as I re-read this. Some nights were not meant to sleep through I guess, fun dreams or not.
You may return to your regularly scheduled program now...................................
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What kind of music would dovetail with the whiny little rant above?
I opened up YouTube Premium and there was a suggested tune for me. It was Anita Hardcok's Banned 1940s song, "It Isn't Gonna Eat Itself". Reading the words "Banned", I was curious how low the bar was for a tune from the 1940s to be struck from the airwaves. So I played it.
Let's just say, if one of those 1990s Parental Advisory tags were available in the 1940s, this song would most likely have more than one. It's Crude. It's Rude. And I love it. Maybe the Good Ole Days really were the Good Ole Days after all.
The eighth grade me would have loved this song. Hell, the 73 year old me agrees.
I had some Cortisone injections in the 1990s for issues I was having with my right elbow. Overuse and abuse caused it. The cortisone shots were extremely painful and in the end did not do squat for the pain. I decided Cortisone was way overrated, deciding I wouldn't go through that ever again.
Flash forward to my burgeoning Old Fart career in the present. I have enjoyed overwhelming pain in my knees for at least the last 5 years. At first I thought I could tough it out. After all, toughing it out had a damn good track record. Ignore it and eventually it will go away.
That was before I had accepted being an old man who now realizes that any new pains are likely to move in for the duration and if I am really lucky , they will drag along some of their distant pain relatives to move in also. I accept now, there is pain and discomfort that is most likely payment extracted by my body for taking it for granted for so many years.
I was called into my doctor's office a couple of weeks ago. He was concerned about a blood test I had just had. I went in for the meet. He told I had tested positive for Hepatitis B. He quizzed me hard. Had I been engaging in dangerous behaviors with drugs or , Gasp, sexually? I assured him I had not. But being a smart ass, I said something to effect of , "Well, I saw a monkey the other day that I knew wanted me. And I almost caved. But no Doc, we did not hook up. My wife frowns on that behavior. I always come home with banana breath."
The look on his face was hard to read. He ignored my pitiful play for some humor and said, "Well, it must be a false positive then, The only way to tell is to order up another blood test, but a test specific to Hepatitis, and not a general wider range generic blood test."
I said okay and then asked, "Are we Done?" His only interest at that point seemed to see me out the door. Then he asked, " Any other issue, complaints, questions?"
It was a generic covering bases kind of question. I looked at him. "Yeah , my knees. They are driving me bonkers. I don't walk anymore if I can sit and even sitting hurts".
The Doc asked me to walk down the hall, turn around and return. I did my best, but it was more of a gimpy limp than a walk. He reckoned it was finally time for me to see an orthopedist and why hadn't I taken his advice the first time he mentioned it 2 years ago? I had no good answer. I just glared at him and mumbled, "Yeah I was a bonehead, but if all he wants to do is cut into me, I'm outta there."
Doctor A didn't say anything. He looked at my chart on his computer screen. He then told me he had not even brought up knee replacement, he just wanted me to see an orthopedist, nothing else. He followed up with, "It looks like you may have bone on bone arthritis. Cortisone shots might help. If nothing else, I am scheduling X-rays and once that is done, someone will contact you. ...... Now, get out of my office.
He smiled. I smiled. I left.
On the way home, my attention was taken up by the positive result for Hep B blood test. I stopped thinking of x-rays and bone doctors. A day or so later, I received a text setting up the X-rays for my knees. I soon had an appointment on the following Friday with an Orthopedist over to Saco, about an hour away.
The next Friday, I found the Orthopedic offices in a industrial park behind a scrape yard in Saco, Maine. Not the usual medical office set up. When I went in, there was no one in the waiting room. I signed in, sat down, and cursed myself because I had not brought my phone in ....Before I could finish chastising myself, a nurse type woman dressed in appropriate nurse type garb asked me to follow her.
I had spoken with the Orthopedist as he poked my knees and looked at my X-rays. He agreed with Dr. A's diagnosis and asked what I wanted to do. It was indeed bone on bone arthritis. He advised cortisone shots in the beginning with some Physical Therapy. He never mentioned knee replacement. I nodded and said let's try it. His assistant already had 2 syringes ready and waiting. Bing Bang Boom, before I could catch my breath he was finishing applying the 2nd band aid. He shook my hand and left the room. The whole visit lasted less than 10 minutes when I found myself outside walking , not gimping back to my car.
What just happened?
The shots were not painful, not really. I barely noticed them. This happened last Friday. I have been almost totally pain free since. I have gone for a walk, worked in the yard, and shook my money maker to a Youtube playlist while I cleaned up the kitchen.
Just when I have decided the Medical Industry is only good for picking my pocket, something comes along that makes me eat crow.
Maybe now I can stay ahead of the pain by not being so sedentary. Maybe even attempt riding my bikes. Nothing would make me happier.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...............................
* AND a BIG BTW - the original positive test for Hep B was indeed a False Positive. Hallelujah !
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I figured the song I danced to in the kitchen would be an appropriate symbol of how much better my knees feel now.
Here is Gangsta Grass, a group who really can't be pigeonholed cleanly. Please enjoy "Nickel and Dime Blues". Play it loud and don't try to ignore the urge to tap your feet or even better, do some shit kicking, heels up dancing wherever you might happen to be.
It was the summer of 1970. I had just graduated from Charlotte Hall Military Academy. Growing up in a household that encouraged early deployment from the nest, I was already free to pursue anything I wanted as long as I showed up ready for college in September. Rather than spend the summer at home in Maine as I had before, I chose to deal with the dysfunction of Snake's family rather than the dysfunction of mine. I stayed in Bethesda, Maryland and crashed on the couch in his family's basement.
As it turned out, a prediction my English teacher wrote in my junior year yearbook came home to roost during those warm days that summer. Degeneration came, but I was too busy to notice. I thought I was having fun:
These are critical Times
Degeneration is around the corner
Watch!
M D Stremba
In retrospect, it would have probably been a smarter move to leave for Maine and miss the madness I allowed myself to get into. I had a Helluva time, but well, along with the fun, there was the un-fun that came along for the ride.
Snake and I abused drugs; lots of drugs; lots of different kinds of drugs; drugs that we shot into our arms; drugs that made us see the world melt and people turn into beings from Outer Space. We also worked 5 days a week, weather permitting. We were part of Snake's Grandfather's painting crew. We worked hard and we were paid shit.
We decided to invest in larger quantities of drugs so we could not just get high for free, but make a little cash on the side. Our plan was to buy a quarter pound of pot and a quantity of LSD. Along with 3 or 4 cases of beer we'd buy on the way, our goal was to set up a small retail concern down at Rock Creek Park in Washington DC on the weekends.
P Street Beach at Rock Creek was a happening spot in the summer. Hippies and random groups of straight folks gathered in droves. They enjoyed picnics, played softball, tossed Frisbees, jammed with Guitars, Banjos Harmonicas and Bongo drums.
These hard charging partiers were gonna get thirsty. And many folks would seek to feed their heads. It was Snake's and my goal to help them facilitate that vision and quench that thirst. It was the 2nd weekend we set up shop at the fringes of the ball fields, I realized it wasn't just Hippies and freaks who wanted pot and LSD.
We sold a bunch of Purple Micro Dots to a suburban housewife who had two kids on leashes. I had never seen kids on leashes before. Seeing this while high on Acid caused some confusion in my brain at the time. Did she really have her kids on leashes? Were there two kids or only one. After she left, I wondered if maybe they were indeed dogs and and my mind was making up the whole thing? The next weekend, she came back without the kids /dogs on leashes and bought some joints. Nice lady. She'd pass for a Soccer Mom today.
We sold joints for a $1, ice cold cans of Papst and Schlitz beer for a $1, and LSD for $1 a hit or 3 hits for $2. The problem we ran into was, we did not know shit about selling drugs. We only knew how to abuse them. It took awhile and learning some restraint before we started to make any profit. But profit we did. Not much maybe, but there was always more cash in our pockets when we left at end of the day than when we came in with that morning.
Meanwhile we did all this high on one drug or another. The weekends became a blur of LSD trails, melting faces, or chest heaving Meth binges. I didn't come down until the end of July.
At some point in late July I became depressed. Having too much fun had some side affects. I woke up one morning after a 36 hour Meth binge. My mouth was dry and cracked. I had to pry my eye lids open, and even then, the gooey haze that had built up over the previous 36 hours took its sweet ass time dissipating. Once my vision improved, I remember I looked over at Snake passed out next to the coffee table which was cluttered with half empty beer cans, Pot roaches, and a couple sets of works laying in the ashtray full of cigarette butts.
I grabbed one of the beer cans and gently shook it. Good, Still some beer in it. I had a desperate case of desert mouth. I tipped up the can and drained it into my mouth. Several cigarette butts hitched a ride with the stale beer. I retched, spit out the butts, the beer and whatever else had been deposited in that can. I have never sucked down a stale can of beer since that day. Just writing about it makes my stomach flip.
That was when I made a decision that changed my life. I began gathering what things I had or remembered I had. I found my duffel bag and stuffed everything in it. I found Snakes and my stash of drugs, split what was left of the pot and the Acid in as close to half as I could and stuffed it deep down in the duffel also. I left the Meth. I was done with Meth.
Without saying goodbye to anyone, I went out to Old Georgetown Rd, stuck out my thumb and hitchhiked back to Maine. Took me a day and a half, but man was I ever happy to see my old room in the attic, the same attic that is above me right now as I pound out this tale.
I said hey to my parents. They briefly quizzed me about my reason for coming home. I lied and as soon as possible, I went up to my attic bedroom, fell on my bed and slept for 24 hours or so. For the next week as I detoxed, I only came down to eat, shit and piss. After that first week was up, my father decided I wasn't going to lay about being useless. He hated useless. He dragged my sorry ass out of bed at the crack of dawn one morning and put me to work in the yard. I will always be grateful he did that. With clearer eyes, I was now ready for my next chapter.
Neither my dad nor my mom ever mentioned my experience again. They must have understood I had been through some kind of emotional stress. They treated me like an adult and respected my silence on the matter.
I know that I was my own savior that summer. I removed myself from the junkie lifestyle we were all slipping into. I ran into Snake the next Fall at a protest march in in Washington, DC. He had fallen deeper into the junkie lifestyle while I had escaped it. Our friendship only lasted another year or so.
______________________
I had no problem deciding what song to dovetail into this post. It is a song Snake and I considered one of our anthems that summer. Playing it over and over let us delude ourselves we were real players in the world of drug dealers. Yeah, we were legends in our own minds alright.
It was a mistake. ........... Maybe calling it a mistake is a tad strong. Call what happened as unforeseen, unpredicted; just something I found while looking for something else.
It matters little how I got here. It wasn't the trip, it's where I ended up. But I guess I need to share.
This is a backwards post today. My normal blogging process, flipped upside down. First, I found the tune. Next, I am creating a post that might only work as a background or sidekick, or maybe just end up something I added for no apparent or coherent reason.
I really fucked with my process. Before I had written a word, I found a selfie I considered pertinent and messed with it, giving that image a point, a focus, a reason for being included.
To top it all off, I apparently decided to make little sense with as many words as I could muster. I'm over fifty words into today's nonsense, and the words have not offered even a small clue what this post is about.
The images might help. They might even do the job I came to do without any need to punish anyone with words. So, I am debating if I should just let the images and the tune make my point; use the words as background decorations, black and white noise that can be read with no need to be understood. Or do I toss them out completely?
......................
Bullying is, or should I say, was a complex issue for me as a youngster. Depending on the new environment I constantly found myself in, bullying was either a top comcern out of the gate or it wasn't. The more insular communities I moved to always had the worst bullies; bullies who often ruled the playground or the walk home with real force, not just mamby - pamby push and shove contests.
I developed many defensive tactics against the bullying and the struggle to fit in as fast as possible. Being athletic opened the doors sooner. Standing up to the biggest bully in school often worked. But being smart and a library nerd was not the path to acceptance without taunts. I hated running into classmates at the libraries I often spent time in. News of my fall from grace always made it to the one asshole I didn't want to deal with. I even wrote a fictional piece about my run ins at libraries. It is called "My Oubliette". It was a flash fiction piece written as part of a weekly writing challenge.
For a very brief period I decided that being a bully was the way to find popularity. I was never a good bully. I just didn't have the nasty temperament needed to pull it off. I felt more comfortable fighting the bullies, embarrassing them and sometimes, when confronted by more than one, running.
It wasn't until I went to Charlotte Hall Military Academy that I embraced the bully life style. Hazing (the PC name for Bullying)...
Bullying was an integral part of the life at the school. Everyone was bullied at some point, usually in their first year. Those K-dets who didn't smarten up and join in the fun often became targets as long as they were there.
I put up with it my first year. I had no choice. My junior year though was a different matter. I occasionally joined in on the Hazing/Bullying, but more often than not I stepped around it and concentrated on defending myself from the residual taunting from my first year. A few fights and I had moved up the Apex ladder. I was mostly left alone from then on. But I would be lying if I claimed I never bullied anyone. And I won't argue the point that because hazing was everywhere, it was okay.
Bullying is never okay.
Keep it tween the ditches .................................
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Like I mentioned at the start of this post, I found the song for it before I had even considered what to write. I felt this song deserved my attention. I had never heard of Gaz Brookfield. "Be a Bigger Man", a song about bullying is excellent. I experienced both sides of Bullying. I have no shame, just regrets that for that short period I became that which I detested.
I must have come by my rabid, frothing at the mouth interest in all things political early on in my childhood. The careful political nurturing I received later by my parents cemented my addiction to what our country should stand for, how our country should work, and why, after all these years, we are still collectively and continuously screwing up this wonderful country we have.
Like many rug rats, I was read to by parents and my older brothers. I grew up surrounded by books, child and adult. The two books I remember the most from those early years was The Little Engine that Could and Yertle the Turtle, by Dr. Seuss. The Cat in the Hat was right up there also, but not like "Little Engine" or "Yertle the Turtle".
My mom told me when I picked the bedtime story as a little tacker who had yet to read on his own, it was usually "Little Engine" or "Yertle". It seems odd that now, some 70 years later, I notice that both books emphasize two of my most deeply embedded character pluses or minuses. The Little Engine That Could was about tenacity and never giving up. Yertle the Turtle was about power and how it corrupts.
The book was banned in several panty bunching locales for being "too Political".
"Yertle the Turtle, a children's story by Dr. Seuss, is more than just a whimsical tale. It's a potent allegory exploring themes of power, ambition, and the dangers of unchecked authority."
As I remember the story, Yertle was a big turtle in a small pond. He ruled over a kingdom as far as he could see. Everything was going well when Yertle got the idea that if he was ruling over everything he could see; he thought, "Why don't I find some high ground so I can see more and rule a bigger kingdom.
The problem his underlings pointed out was they lived in a pond. There was no high ground in a pond. Other than a swamp, a pond was about as low as one could go.
"Hmm", Yertle thought, "I wonder?"
He scratched his pebbly turtle chin. "How can I get higher?" None of his underlings or sycophants had an answer.
Yertle set to pondering this question of ruling all that he surveyed. One morning, after his breakfast of algae bloom sprinkled liberally with tadpoles and water bugs, he summoned his assistant.
"If I am to rule over all that I survey, I need to be higher so I will know how big my kingdom is. It has to be bigger than this small pond."
Yertle then demanded that several turtles from his flock stand on each other's backs. After quite a few had successfully scrambled onto each other's back, Yertle slowly climbed to the highest turtle and took a lay of the land.
The view pleased him immensely, but something was not right. He knew immediately what was wrong. He had not gained enough height. Surely there was more to his kingdom than this paltry pond and swamp. Yertle demanded that more and more of his citizens stack themselves up.
When there was a turtle stack that became lost in the distance heights, Yertle slowly climbed up the turtle stack until he found the top. He was just beginning to understand how big his kingdom was, when one of the slackers he had ordered to be part of the stack shifted. The tower of turtles began to sway this way and then sway that way, like a snake climbing a tree trunk. The sway, at first mild and almost hypnotic. began to sway in a faster and more extreme way. It was out of control. Every turtle on it clawed frantically for a grip on the turtle beneath them ..........
The stack of turtles fell and fell hard. Yertle ended up in the swamp at the end of the pond with mud in his eye and a reed stuck up his ass. That is where you will find him today; ruling over a couple of dead beat frogs and a hostile dragonfly.
Just so you know, I re-capped the story from memories of many bedtime readings of the tale. So cut me some slack if it is not perfectly correct. I covered the high notes at least.
I heard some scuttlebutt about Trump loving this tale once he was able to understand it in the 8th grade. My source went on to contend, Donnie always wished he had written it as it was the game plan he knew he was destined to follow. ......... And don't believe him when he often claims that he actually wrote the story and that sleaze bag Seuss plagiarized it from him.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ..................................
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I was sure there would be problems locating a tune to go with this post that wasn't something from "Romper Room". I was wrong. I found a tune I had not heard yet. Here is "Yertle the Turtle", by the Red Hot Chili Peppers .......... Turn it up to WOW. It's the Chili Peppers dude.
After giving the Political Right more slack than they deserve, I have decided that there are no longer any redeeming qualities to be found on or in the Political Right of America. The whole lot of them have ceded any claims to moral high grounds or any rights to lofty ideals such as serving all Americans, not just the interests their swamp scum leadership tell them to serve. I used to excuse many of their actions as mass ignorance and stupidity. Now I don't.
At some point, continuing to act stupid does not stir up the empathy it used to. At some point, it is time to recognize what the Rank and File of the Right is. The Rank and File willingly followed their leaders down the self serving garden path their leadership laid out for them. They are just as guilty as their slimy swamp dwelling leaders; maybe more so.
The Rank and File of the Right have chosen to be evil, inconsiderate, immoral total assholes who are rubberstamping the unconscionable self serving policies their swamp dwelling leaders are using to ruin the Democratic Republic we have all taken for granted for so many years.
The leaders of the right now own 40 or so percent of America's citizenry. Now, they are coming for the rest of us. They no longer care how their tactics are perceived. The meaning of "Unconstitutional" no longer means anything to the Right. The factual truth of everything no longer matters. They double down on their lies and then spew even uglier and terrible new lies that continually cause many people great harm while they sit back in the delusions they are doing good for America.
The Right is a pox on our nation at the moment. Anyone who supports them is a carrier.
Later Gators .....................................
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Music, music, music.
When I decided to pick a tune for every post, I really did not appreciate how much extra time and effort it added to putting a new blog post out there in the Internet Ether. I have whined about this before; all the while, not recognizing the benefits of the search and sometimes, drudgery of finding a song.
This morning, in this moment, I now understand how much the search for music for every post has expanded my musical horizons. I had been in danger of another classic Old Fart tendency; stop looking and settling into a soft withdrawal from the busy world outside. After all, there is nothing new under the Sun; not really.
Finding music has done more than just expanding my musical quiver, my efforts have reminded me there is always something new under the Sun. I just need to look for it.
Here is a Thrash Metal tune, "We are One", by Vigilante. Thrash Metal has its place in the musical lineups. Certainly a niche category in the larger category we call Heavy Metal. Thrash depends on creating music that attacks our senses. Enjoy or not.
In the Spring of 1969, my Junior year high school English teacher wrote this in my yearbook. At the time, it puzzled me more than it alarmed me. As I packed on the years, I would often re-visit it in my mind. With each re-run, my puzzlement changed to understanding and finally to anger at the stupidity of Humans. We are indeed, our own worst enemies.
Captain Stremba was an odd man. One of the best teachers I ever had. I am not sure why he and his odd way of looking at things stuck with me. I know now though, that that simple quote written in my yearbook affected my world view dramatically from that point forward.
The quote made sense in 1969. America was at war with itself, in a hot war in another nation, a cold war with another, and working hard to kill Mother Nature. We were only just beginning to understand the ramifications of our actions, which prior to the 1960s America seemed to be clueless and ignorant of what it was doing to itself and others. In that respect, America is still trying to destroy itself, only now our self destructive tendencies are more transparent; not so hidden as they used to be.
Captain Stremba's thoughts on what he saw coming surprised me at the time. But I was still wet behind the ears really, even though I was sure I knew it all. It was not until I had been beaten up some and disappointed some during the ensuing years, did the real meaning of what he meant dawn on me. There are all types of degeneration floating around us all the time; personal; cultural, political, and spiritual.
It was one night when I was asleep on the floor in the lock up in Oakland County, Michigan that I woke up suddenly with that quote in my mind. It was then I began to really address my own personal degeneration. Within 3 years I was "sitting up straight and flying right" as my mom used to warn me before the shit really hit the fan.
The cultural degeneration Captain Stremba referred to continued, only in a different lane. Degeneration or Decay, if you will, is always in gear. It surrounds us, eats at our ideals and given a chance will toss us into periods of deep despair and crippling ruin. It may change it's focus, but without due diligence on our parts, it will take over and kick us to the curb. So far, we have somehow managed to survive the worst of it. But don't be fooled. Degeneration is insidious and ever present, waiting patiently for Humans to stop keeping Watch.
Be wary of every corner you encounter. ........... Especially now. It is as bad as I have ever seen it. No period in my life is more primed to blow up in our faces.
Later ................................................
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I wasn't going to include a Metal tune for this post. Then I ran across "Degenerate", by Starset. The visuals of the video seem to fit nicely with the sentiments of my post.
But first, please listen to "Hi Ren", by Ren Hill, a very talented Welsh musician who has dealt with personal demons for a long time. His talent is awesome, truly awesome.
When I decided I wanted to trip again, I was only considering the fun I had when I ate LSD as a teen and young man. I did remember the deep insights and awesome conclusions I made about Life. But those deeper thoughts always ran second behind the trails, breathing walls, words that appeared on sidewalks, and body rushes that often were better than sex.
Psychedelics were an all sensory experience that for a time, removed me from the reality I was trying to escape. More often than not, when I came down from a trip, the world did make a little more sense, I credit my use of hallucinogens for turning me from an angry kid into a kid who was more centered; not prefect, but better able to handle the inevitable disappointment that came with living a life. Hallucinogens taught me how to chill.
My renewed interest is not so much for the physical experience but for the spiritual experience. I want an experience that will once again help me find some footing in a world I am positive is losing control of itself.
I don't know if circling back to the world of psychedelics will bring me some peace. I do know Religion won't do it. That avenue closed for me over 50 years ago. But what really has gotten me fired up is the whole culture that has grown up around Fungi and its relationship to the Human experience.
The 4th Annual Maine Fungi Fest is happening at the end of this month. It is only an hour away. I figured I would go and check it out. It is a 3 day event. I assume Saturday will be the big day. I am not going so I can get high. I want information and connections to help me learn more about fungi, the trippin kind and the other kinds, edible and medicinal. What I have learned so far is nothing but a tease. I want some real interactions with folks who have some expertise, not just loose dog experiences like I have had so far.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ....................................
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I am breaking one of my own hard line rules here. The song, "Journey to the Center of the Mind" was a 1968 song that rocked every teen club from coast to coast. The Amboy Dukes were only around for a brief time. It is understandable then I had no clue who was in it or what one of them might turn into 50 years later. Seems Ted Nugent was their lead guitarist. I vowed many years ago before Ted became the Winger Asshole he is today, that I would never own or play any of his music.
Contrary to popular belief about rock and roll stars of the 1970's, most of them did not actively go after underage girls. Sure it happened, but no where to the degree the myth has created. When I was driving rock and roll bands around though, Ted Nugent had very bad rep for bedding underage girls. When he released, "Jail Bait", in 1981 though, that was when I was done with him. He was a mediocre talent with the reputation for being a class A asshole.
Anyway, rules are meant to be broken I guess. Offering up this tune is proof.
Mushrooms don't wait for you to pick them. They have their own schedule. When they have met their seasonal biological needs for self preservation, they lose everything above ground and retire to the network of mycelium they are constantly building underground. As long as the proper nutrients they need are available, the Mushroom in the ground will just get bigger and healthier.
The batch of Psilocybin mushrooms near the septic tank looked beautiful yesterday. Today, they looked like their moment in the Sun was over. The gills must have dropped all their spores. They looked so bad, I picked the ones that were left.
Now I have set up a jury rigged dryer in the basement and I'm hoping to dry them for storing. If it works, great. We will see.
The other thing I am planning is to set up a grow environment for the batch I picked a short while ago. I have barely a clue how to do it; call it just a sniff of a hint. But it is either toss the rooting material that came up with the Shrooms I yanked or give it a try to see if I can grow them. It would be a major triumph if I was able to make that happen.
Apparently the Shrooms I have in the yard love wood chips. When the septic guy filled over the new leach field, he hauled in a a few dozen railroad cars of chips, so I have wood chips. ....... Uh, okay, okay; it wasn't railroad carloads, it just seems like it.
I also have some wonderful leftover high end soil from my days of growing pot. I will mix it with some wood chips and plant the mycelium (the root system of mushrooms) that was stuck to the Shrooms I yanked.
Some follow up - Good and Not so Good
My jury rigged hydrator worked beautifully. The first batch I put in took 4 hours, but it is bone dry and ready to store.
I decided to pick the rest of the Shrooms out in the yard because of the condition of the ones I picked this morning. One batch had been hit by a critter. Only stems and a few buttons left. I took them. Then I cleaned out the remaining batch.
Apparently, the best time to pick them is when you see them. Don't dawdle.
So there it is; another installment in Mike's learning curve regarding Psilocybin Mushrooms. I have a long way to go. I have a lot to learn. I have many mistakes to make. This is what Life is all about, pushing new limits, failing and trying again.
My next task is to create the mushroom growing environment. I have an idea of what I am going to do. I will keep you posted.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ....................................
___________________________
All this recent focus on mushrooms leaves me no choice but to play a song I have been avoiding. Why was I avoiding it? I guess it was because the choice is too logical, too convenient. It's the first song many of my Boomer contemporaries would pick if they were writing about consuming Magic Mushrooms. ........ I have resisted long enough.
But which version should I pick? The original I danced to at Teen Club back when acne was my biggest problem? Or a newer version, a cover by talented musicians in a completely different genre.
I decided that, though there are many fine covers of "White Rabbit" originally released by in 1967, no band performs it better than they did. Grace Slick was in her prime and she could belt out some tunes. Enjoy.
It appears I have 3 different varieties of Psilocybin mushrooms growing in my back yard. They seem to have been hitchhikers who caught a ride with the shitty fill, the septic guy put down after he installed the new septic tank and leach field two years ago. Psilocybin Mushrooms love wood chips. The fill was chock full of wood chips, chunks of asphalt, gravel, and just for fun, a token few cubic yards of real loam.
Two days ago I threw caution to the winds and ate two small mushrooms. I definitely felt the changes they made in my mind and body. Very mild high with zip for negative consequences.
Then this morning ....... Actually, just over an hour ago, I ate some different mushrooms that were growing near the septic tank. They were large, more robust Shrooms. I ate 16 grams; 3 fresh ones. And yes, I am feeling the results. A tad more intense than the other day but not crippling ......yet. I do not expect to be comatose or turn into a drooler. Shrooms have never really had that kind of impact on me. ........ Well, there was one time on a mountain bike camping trip up country Maine back in the early-ish 1990s. We ate Shrooms; got lost in the woods at night and stumbled around until dawn. I might have eaten more than I should have that night. Had a blast though.
Just a short note about my new adventure - locating and harvesting wild Psilocybin mushrooms. Apparently, they are everywhere if you know where to look. And finally I have a clue where to look. This discovery could make for a fun and interesting summer.
Later Gators, I have a trip I have to take ...............................
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Music today will have nothing to do with anything on purpose or for that matter, not on purpose. My mind is crammed now with dealing with the enhanced senses of a Psilocybin influence. I have headphones on and am listening to "Misc. Playlist #1". There is no rhyme, no reason no sensible flow to any of my "Misc" playlists So when I felt like it is time, I will pick a song with no attempt to tie it to this post. After all, this post is nonsense and I take pride in that fact.
Y'all have a super day now. I know I will.
I scrolled ahead on this playlist. I noticed first of all, I was going to have trouble picking a tune. There are just too many good tunes .... and then I came to Broken Peach's cover of "Tainted Love".
Best enjoyed loud with a full screen video. Zombie chicks in nursing outfits. It just doesn't get any Hotter than that. But first, I have to start off with another cover. This time it's an excellent Bluegrass / Country cover of an old Buffalo Springfield tune, "For what its worth" .............. It's a two-fer post..... Just excellent.
When I sold my bike shop and retired 7 years ago, I didn't fuck around. No half ass effort laced with regret and angst. I retired and have not looked back since. Of course my decision was made easier given the health issues that began to rear their ugly heads back then. They didn't cripple me I guess. They did however, fuck with my mind; never mind the Hell that broke loose in my body. .......
But this is not a "Woe is Me" post. No it isn't. It's a celebration of sorts.
When I retired I decided I was pretty much done traveling. The current events of the planet these last 5 years just reinforced that feeling. The world beyond my local yokel borders was off its rocker, gone berserk; was now just a wasteland of hate and discontent.
I looked inward. I looked in my pockets. I gazed over the lakes and a few times to the horizon at the far end of the visible ocean but a short drive from my home. Why the Fuck would I want to go anywhere?
I used to go everywhere. Been there and done that. Don't need it now. Definitely don't need to see how deep a hole my country has dug for itself. These are my "Golden Years". There's plenty of Gold right here for me to discover. Yesterday, I discovered some of that gold I just knew was hanging out nearby or just down the road.
Because retirement freed up space in my brain to fill back up again, I filled it with moments remembering the misdeeds and the fewer better deeds from my past. My psychedelic years were definitely go-to moments for me to attempt to remember. I tripped so much back in the day, specific memories come back as snippets and glances of those times; often combining the highlights of several trips into one memory. One trip ran into the next one which continued into the next one, etc, etc, etcetera. Yeah, Snake's and my purchase of 500 hits of Purple Micro-Dot acid turned into many lost moments that summer; that summer of 1970.
Dredging up ancient LSD trips got me to thinking. Caused me to consider again, how much I would love to trip again. I always liked it, even when the circumstances were not ideal.
I wondered though. Had I acquired too much caution as I became an old man to take the chance again? ...... uhm, NAH... Any concern I might have entertained was lost as soon as it crossed my mind.
I determined that some way, some how, I would score some psychedelics; LSD, Peyote, Shrooms; didn't matter. I wanted to see trails again. I wanted to see the ground ripple, walls breath, watch my face melt in any nearby mirror, but most of all, find the words in my mind scrawled on sidewalks and church doors. Being retired seemed the perfect time to revisit this long past part of my life before I became too careful.
Instead of trying to chase down a local connect for what I wanted, I began to intermittently look into growing mushrooms in the basement or wherever it was that mushrooms would grow. Online, there are too many choices for information, grow kits, spore connections and guides on how to find it in the wild. Like everything online, the results of a google search can boggle the mind.
Based on the writings of a world renowned Psilocybe expert, Alan Rockefeller, I began to closely inspect the mushrooms I came upon in the local woods and in my own yard. Two years ago, we had our septic tank and leach field replaced. The fill used to cover it was less than I expected. There were noticeable chunks of asphalt, gravel, and wood chips mixed together, passing for the finish layer. Two years later, the grass seeds the septic guy tossed around are still trying to take hold.
Last year while I was out with Maggie, I noticed some mushrooms growing out of that shitty top layer he called topsoil. The mushrooms looked familiar. I had seen them before. Were they Psilocybin mushrooms? Or were they trouble if they found their way into my gulliwots? I thought about it overnight. In the morning I was determined to try one or two. When I went to the spot, some critter had beaten me to it. I was pissed, but I thought maybe that critter saved me a trip to the local clinic........
Yesterday. intermittent showers and 40 degree temps made outside an unpleasant experience. But I went out anyway because I had remembered those mushrooms from last year. .... and now I had images to compare with.
At the same spot, there was a new batch popping up through the chips/ gravel mix. They looked like they were trippin Shrooms for sure. They did not look fully grown yet, their caps hadn't spread open into a proper mushroom look yet.
From the information I had gathered, I also had some good clues on whether this mushroom was not just a Psilocybin mushroom, but most important, was it safe to eat.
If it smells earthy like fresh mushrooms at the store smell, well, that's a good sign.
If the gills are white - not necessarily a good sign.
Then there was the taste test, a very scientific way created on Tik Tok I think. The idea was to let your mouth decide whether a mushroom was okay to ingest. I am sure other more knowledgeable Mycologists than some clown on Tik Tok might shake the heads, but since I can be clownish on occasion, the taste test method seemed logical as long as the tester understood the possibility of consequences they might not like.
If you got sick within the first 2 hours, that was better than getting sick after 6 hours.
Okay. Now I was armed with all the information to make a half assed and sketchy decision. Did I concern myself with the odds? No. Did I worry about not waking up tomorrow. No. I picked 2 small Shrooms, ate them fresh and waited.
I figured 2 small Shrooms would not kill me ; maybe make me sick. Regardless, I instantly relied on the old rule of dropping acid Snake and I came up with. Never regret eating Hallucinogens. If it's in your belly, it's too late to regret. Go with the flow, chill, enjoy the ride wherever it might take you. This philosophy certainly helped me to handle jail, several ER visits, being chased by rednecks through the woods, and an afternoon "sitting up" at a funeral home with Snake's very dead Great Grandmother. She talked to me the whole time. Snake asked me who I was talking to. When I told him his Great Grandmother, he busted up laughing, then I busted up laughing...we become so unruly and loud, we were escorted outside to calm down. To be fair we were originally told we would not have Dead G Grandma duty, but things changed when the scheduled sitter blew off the assignment
Staying on topic now .......
I definitely felt the effects of the small dose. I felt music more than I heard it. The letters on the keyboard squirmed some and when I felt my face, it felt awesome. No headaches, no cramps, just a couple of hours of a low dosing Psilocybin.
My primary concern after I came down was will I wake up in the morning? Or even go to sleep tonight. Nothing like taking a foolish risk to find out how important living is. I can't say I was feeling fearful, anxious or uptight. Sometimes in order to feel alive, one has to threaten one's existence, even if it ends up an empty threat.
It appears I came through in decent condition. And now I have a small crop of Psilocybin mushrooms to collect, dry and hold onto for that moment I feel I need to "Trip the Light Fantastic".
Keep it 'tween the Ditches .........................
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One of my favorite tunes to listen to while tripping back in my younger days was "The End", by the Doors. If I was getting hyper or antsy, this song always calmed me down.
On this date in 1945, my father was on a flight to Europe as a member of the Armed Forces. He was a cog in the coalition of US military experts who would begin the restoration of Europe after it had been devastated by World War ll. Their efforts were called "The European Recovery Plan" which would eventually be called "The Marshall Plan", after the dynamic General George Marshall, who headed up the effort. 17 European economies, devastated by the previous war, were rebuilt from the ground up by the USA and mostly on the USA's dime.
I could go anywhere with that opening; the politics, the debt owed by Europe, the absolute class act that the Marshall plan was ...... But I won't. This is about my father.
As he related his experiences to me, he did not get to Europe in time to witness the signing of the armistice. Like I mentioned, he was on a plane at the time. But he did spend the next 4 years as one of the cogs that made the Marshall Plan a success. He toured Auschwitz only a week or so after he landed. He was taken off his detail as a budget officer helping to finance the recovery and loaned to the prosecution team at Nuremburg. He traveled all over Europe to assess the costs of resurrecting various areas as much as possible to their previous splendor. He knew what he was looking at and what it looked like before the war. He had spent 4 summers in college as a European tour guide for American tourists in the late 1920s.
My father was a stoic, stiff upper lip kinda guy. I was somewhat taken aback when he told me he cried the first time he saw what the war had done to Europe. He took many pictures of the damage, but only rarely did he pull them out to look at them. I discovered them after his death when I was nosing around in the many boxes of slides, photos and photography equipment he left in the attic. I have yet to transfer them to a digital record.
His post war experiences he said were probably the best and worst times of his life. Everyday he had to deal with one type of post war damage or another. But he also found love and married a WAC he met. Sadly the marriage did not last as she was killed. I am not sure how she died. All I know is she died. He never talked about it.
The front page to the right is from the defunct Baltimore newspaper, the "Baltimore News-Post". I found it under a trashed linoleum floor in a factory worker house I lived in in Mt. Washington, a neighborhood in Baltimore. The house was perfect for two, just out of college guys. It had a yard and it was cheap.... Dirt cheap.
What makes the page unique is the color standard at the top and the unusual height of the Headline letters. That was some high tech shit back in those days. But what the page symbolizes is just how invested the planet had been in World War ll. Everything stopped worldwide for 4 plus years while countries from every corner of the globe lined up in factions and then proceeded to try to destroy each other. The Axis powers and the Allies. The Allies fought the Axis countries on two fronts, the Japanese in Asia and the Germans and Italy in Europe and northern Africa.
It was about this time 100 years ago that the World started warming up for another war. The first World War had ended badly for Germany. The treaty they were forced to eat was rather draconian. Many Germans wanted revenge. In 1923 Adolf Hitler and some 2000 malcontents marched into the city of Berlin hoping to overthrow the government. They failed. Adolf was awarded a 5 year jail sentence, thrown in jail where he wrote that wonderful Project 2025, ...uh, I mean "Mein Kampf", the workbook he would use that eventually put him on top of the world for a few years. The real World War ll began with a whimper in the 1920's and ended with world wide conflagrations and millions dead by 1945. The planet had never experienced anything like it before or since..........
So, I would say that this V-E day packs warnings and possible dire predictions of similar fates if we don't stop fucking around. The evil cycle of 100 years is looking for a repeat performance and so far, we seem to be welcoming it back.
There is no such thing as overreacting when History is not just threatening to repeat itself, it has begun the process.
Later ......................................
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An appropriate tune for this post would be a song that was popular during WWll. My mom loved this song. It made her cry every time she heard it. Maybe it was because her first husband, a Navy Commander, died during the War. It is also the song Stanley Kubrick chose to close his second greatest movie, "Dr. Strangelove". As the nukes go off destroying the world, this song kicks in. Perfect.
Here is "We'll Meet Again", by Vera Lynn,, released in 1943.
Too many signs passed by this morning for me to ignore them.
The first sign was a dream waking me up. All I could remember was an image of some dude dressed in 1800s duds hanging from a cross made of woven straw, hay, or grass. This first sign I blew off and got started with my day.
I am an admitted hoarder, uh, I mean collector. Have been all my life. I never know when that something I saved 10 years ago might come in handy. In defense of myself, I rationalize by asking, "Is my style of collecting really hoarding?" Or is it collecting things I know will come in handy someday. I go with "collecting". "Hoarding" sounds like a psychological condition. And I know I am sane.... at least most days I do.
My second sign appeared as I was enjoying my first cup of coffee and scrolling through some of the 437 screenshots currently taking up space in my PC . I do this sometimes on the premise I will actually delete a few..... HA! Yeah, sure thing. The next time I want to scroll, there will be 460 or 470..... who knows? I certainly cannot delete them. I might have a use for one in 10 years.
In mid scroll, the second sign caught my attention; an image of an older man wearing a classically red MAGA hat, only the words read, "Make America Pray Again." This image tied in and disturbed me more than the crucifix up top; which BTW, is not a very good representation of the image from my dream.
It was when the Jon Stewart quote showed up in my Facebook feed during my second cup of coffee, I couldn't ignore this many signs any longer. Their appearance in such quick succession gave me my Blog topic for May 6, 2025. I had finally found some connections within that messy network, I charitably call my mind. Bold letters formed many inches high:
ORGANIZED RELIGION
Again one of my go to subjects was begging for more commentary. I certainly have beaten this horse many times in the past and will continue to do so in the foreseeable future.
My first thought was of the wish of many Americans hoping to return to the days they have been painting in their minds of when America was a safe country, a just country, a country that obeyed the Will of God. Their delusion regarding this never-was paradise of Heaven on Earth has had years to morph into a fantasy that the Word of God will not only once again run our lives on Sunday, it will also run our lives every other day of the week. Mandatory fealty to an imaginary entity will eventually put all of us on the same page and life will be wonderful again.
Of course first, we have to clean up the messes those pesky Libtards, Commies, uppity women, Brown people and all the other Satan worshiping Heathens forced upon us. To make that happen, a big first step would be to put all the brown people in their place or boot them out of the country.
God wants a White Nation. We know this because just look at any proper crucifix. There is always a handsome lanky White American Jesus, a guy with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, dangling from those Roman nails patiently waiting too be resurrected for who? Not brown people, that's for sure.
The Christian Nationalist hat the old guy is wearing reminds me and should remind anyone who sees it, that there is no difference between the Taliban and the type of control Christian Nationalists want. They are quick to loudly disclaim any association with those hated Fundamentalist Muslims. Hell, they don't dress like us, they don't pray like us, and most of all, most of them don't look like us.
If those are their sole criteria, they are fooling themselves. Besides, those are only the differences in appearance. At the core of both extreme versions of their rigid beliefs is control, iron control with dire consequences for those who dare stand up to them.
The Christian Nationalist leaders recognize the fact that they do not have the same power over Christians as the Taliban has over its Islamic flock. Most are afraid to admit they wish they had. That would only lend credibility to the notion of Iron control the Christian Nationalists really want. But they cannot help themselves. They constantly expose their true intentions by committing unforced errors with public displays like the hat there. "Make America Pray Again" is unequivocally calling for mandatory prayer among our population. It doesn't use persuasion like "Urge America to Pray Again, it insists we "MAKE America Pray Again.
I remember mandatory Lord's Pprayer and mandatory recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance. All through primary and secondary school, both were part of my morning rituals at the various schools I attended. Funny thing though, it did not seem to make any difference. Christianity had begun to leak followers in the 1960s .This slow trickle jumped dramatically in the 1970s and continued until now. In the late 1960s 73% of Americans claimed they attended church regularly. Today, the number is around 47%.
This loss in Christian strength might make those who dislike organized Christianity feel full of themselves.; make them feel they have American Christianity on the run. Don't be foolish. Organized Christianity is patient, insidious and determined. It will never be defeated. This drop has only made the Fundamentalist Christians even more dangerous than ever before. There is a higher percentage of fundamentalists relative to the remaining population of self described Christians. That makes the potential for a Christian Nationalist takeover of what is left of Christianity in this country, a more attainable goal; a movement of maybe lower numbers but with a more evil intent.
Last but not least. almost every time I think of the possibility of an American Theocratic State, I dredge up a flash fiction piece I first wrote on 1/4/2012, then re-posted on 9/7/2021. It proposes a possible future that should worry all of us. Yeah, it is fiction, but given the recent push by Christian Nationalists, its a damn site more believable than any Zombie movie.
On that cheery note, I will bid you Adieu ........................................
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I finally am posting a song that we could consider current and up to date. This is a band I just discovered. A punk rock group formed in the late 1980s were still releasing new music as recently as 2020. Here is "Christian Nationalist", by Anti - Flag.
Optimal impact - punch it up to and including WOW on the volume dial.
Before people, who might read this post, allow their panties to knot, I am only posting this image of Obama dressed as the Pope to write about the shit storm this image has created on a Liberal Facebook group page I moderate with some other folks.
This image was posted by an admitted Liberal who is one of the moderating crew for the page. So we can't blame the sleazebags on the Right.
The response to this post was incredible with overwhelming disapproval of it, Cries of "Take it Down", "Obama would never Approve", "Disgusting", filled the comment queue. If I closed my eyes, uh well, I couldn't read the comments then ... new approach here. If I imagined I had my eyes closed and was listening to these comments, I would have thought I was lost in the middle of a Trump Rally.
The outrage this image caused among the Liberals who comprise the members of "My Political Voice" on Facebook illustrate how much passion people, no matter their political leanings, have regarding religion; those who hate religion, those who may live and breath within its reach, and those who object using it in combination with their politics. Religion has been and will always be a divisive and polarizing concept. The fight is between Realists and those who fantasize about a big white guy in the sky they just know someday will save them from all this ...... whatever "all this" happens to be at the time. Seems a waste of time, this battle does.... Oh Well.
I want to laugh and blow it off, but actually the Liberals on the page responding like this reinforces my contention that America is wound up so tight right now, something will touch off the bottled up anger and all Hell will break loose in the near future. Hate and Discontent is building to a fever pitch on both sides now.
This is not a good thing. If there is to be trouble, the Left needs to remain as calm as they can and allow the Right to set it off. The Left needs to allow the Right to totally fail and show America what happens if we leave them in charge. So far, they have been doing a stellar job of failing. We should allow them the rope to continue their ill advised crusade for stupid shit.
I know they are causing damage; hurting and tearing down institutions and policies that are the backbone of what a caring government should do. But right now, at this moment, losing it and going berserk is not the answer.
I have to say, it feels very strange to be a voice of reason. My track record would indicate I would be for all the nasty suggestions spoken or written behind closed doors. But I am not for violence of any kind and I know, violence will never work as long as Trump has this country by the short hairs.
Hysteria does not often end with the hoped for result. Hysteria more often than not, initiates poorly considered knee jerk solutions. Just look at the Right Wing model unfolding before our eyes. The Winger movement, the project 2025 bullshit is the product of all the hate and hurt feelings the Right has created for themselves going back... well, going back past the middle of the 20th century. The Right knows how to hold onto a grudge. Their problem is, they allow their grudges to dictate how they govern once they control the reins again. Democrats tend to just move on.
Keep the Sunny Side up and your rubber on the Road ................
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I may have previously used this song for a post. Killing in the Name of...", by Rage Against the Machine by far one of my favorite political/anti-religion tunes. This band pulled no punches with their music. And what tells us they were great is their music is more relevant today then when they produced it. ........ Play it Loud, Play it Proud, Play it anyway you want, but play it.
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