Cigarettes and Tron bikes

Wow. 5 posts in a row that have to do with music. Perhaps it's time for a break - a break from the music inspired posts. But this post will also reference music. There's no winning the battle.

To try to satisfy Yawn, I can only say "La resina y el brote son largos idos." That is, I've done my share, but I assure you that at least the illicit usage is over. Really.

There is no secret. I've already admitted to taking far too many psychotropic drugs in my youth. I have to admit that the shrooms were amazing - I finally realized that the Incas were in fact responsible for the eventual assassination of JFK. You won't find that on PBS, but I have it on authority that it is correct. More correct that you can comprehend.

In fact, I've already briefly discussed my short-lived love affair with acid.

So let's again take the Way-back machine. Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun. Better yet, set the controls for 1993.

Contrary to the insane concerns of politicians and cops, there actually are such things as "acid parties", though they'd never be described as such by a participant. I hosted one such party with a few of my favorite people back in highschool.

Ahh. The Way-back machine is starting to resolve. We can safely begin to observe:

See my friends on the back porch of my parents house. My parents were gone (naturally), so we were free to do whatever we liked. What most of the acid crowd liked was to sit under the stars and comment, endlessly, on how their cigarettes were sometimes triangular in cross-section. Sometimes they were short, often they were too long. Sometimes they seemed too fat to fit in the mouth, sometimes they were too skinny to be properly held. To cut to the chase, a smoker on acid can consume 10 packs in a matter of hours without blinking.

My girlfriend and I found a stash of bud in the false-bottom of a bong that one of my friends had brought. It was dry and light as tinder - it had obviously been sitting around for months. Well, this was an open invitation to partake. Sorry, buddy. If this had ever meant something to you, it would have been smoked months ago.

If you have no experience with these things, I envy you. But to try to describe the situation, I raised a Bic to the bowl, and prepared to inhale.

And here is where words fail me. The next two hours were a geometric blur. Things passed through me, thing came from me. Shapes, colors, scents.. all the same. I've been told that I spent a good deal of time chasing fast colors through the carpet, trying to trap the Tron cycles that littered my living room. I've also been told that I crushed a Dr. Pepper can against my forehead, frat beer-style, and proclaimed The End.

Finally we were alone, she and I. It was the weirdest sex that I've ever had, and it was all that I could do to continue. We were on a water-bed, and I actually melted into her. I could no longer define myself, and I would have done anything to pull away. But it would have been like divorcing yourself. My face and jaw emerged from the back of her head as her breasts protruded from my back. There was an orgasm in the apocalypse, but I'm not sure if it was mine.

Later, Lisa Loeb was on MTV. Her hair was whipped by the wind as she performed for the masses. I was convinced that she was under water and drowning. I could not accept that she yet continued to sing. I yelled at the TV and pulled the cord out of the wall, heaving and sweaty. To this day, I will not speak of it further. Lisa Loeb is the scarriest thing since Mr. Ed. I have nothing to say to you, Mr. French pastry, and I trust that you have nothing to say to me.

One day I woke up. But it was not that day, nor was it for months after. I woke up, alright, but I ingested another few hits. And it started again. The wonder, the terror, the release, the prison.

Acid is a young man's game. I still miss it, but you couldn't pay me enough to do it again.