Drug Wars: Mescaline v. LSD in Steel Cage Match!
by Michele Christopher
Ok guys. We have been on overdrive for the last two days to make up for us not feeling too well and slacking off for the weekend. We know we are gonna finish the punk list like tomorrow, we swear, and then figure out the voting scheme. It will be out here soon. But for tonight, rarely, we didn't know what to do. So we both brainstormed and came up with an idea. We both did drugs, right? What about bad drug experiences? I mean we all had them. You guys can relate. So here, one shot deal, is our weirdest drug memories. Cause face it, we could both fill a Wiki on how many substances ruled our bodies. This is just two of the funnier ones. Enjoy!
Well damn, dude. Which story to tell? Hey, I grew up in the 70's. Drugs. It’s what we did. You may think some Catholic school girl living on Long Island would be far removed from that, but..well, no.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Really, when someone asks you about your experiences with hallucinogenic drugs, that’s a pretty good answer. You win some, you lose some. When the L column starts outnumbering the W column, you call it quits.
Like I said, this was the 70's. Most of our drug use involved using bongs made out of household products, sitting around in someone’s art deco basement discussing Syd Barrett’s sanity or Jim Morrison’s dick. Every bong hit was chased with piss warm Miller Lite stolen from someone’s garage. Sometimes there was hash - smooth, blessed hash - and sometimes - ok, a lot of times, there was acid and mescaline.
Oh, mescaline. To this day, whenever I think of that beautiful purple microdot, I can almost feel that metallic taste form on my tongue, that signal that the mesc was working its way through my body and I was about to fly. Most of my friends preferred LSD as their means of flying. Not me. I flew the microdot airlines. Never a bad trip. Never a dull moment. And never a feeling of disappointment when you realize that the Mickey Mouse blotter you just licked was a fake. The price you pay for trusting your drug money to hippies camped outside a Hot Fucking Tuna concert. I knew that when I drove all the way to Alley Pond Park and placed my bills in Fat Albert’s hands, I was getting the real deal. Fat Al didn’t mess around. Fat Al had a reputation to uphold. And I’m sure he’s still upholding it on Riker’s Island. But that’s another story.
Let me just cut right to the camping trip. Guys, I am not a camper. Do I seem like a camper to you? Jesus fuck, no. I need electricity. I need a real bed. I need to not have to take a piss in the middle of some godforsaken woods in upstate New York. I need to not hear someone reprimand me for not using “nature’s toilet paper” a/k/a, a leaf, and using a page from their notebook instead. Fuck camping. Wait, I went. They talked me into it. I don’t know how the hell they did it, but they talked me into it.
So Bear Mountain, New York. April. Fucking rainy season. I swear, the second we got up there it started pouring on and off. We sat in this thin, falling apart tent watching the water seep in. Great, I’m gonna drown in my sleep on a god damn camping trip. Fuck this. I know we were supposed to save the mesc for the next night, but I was gonna make this camping trip work. If I had to trip to do it, so be it. I was finally able to convince everyone that tonight was the night to have our big party because if this rain kept up, we’d all be boarding a fucking ark the next day and asking Noah to make us breakfast. Let’s live while we can. So we did. Broke out the beers, broke out the bongs, broke out the mesc. All at once. I'm not gonna say how many tabs we had each. Suffice it to say it was more than the dialy recommended dosage.
Let me tell you, when you are high and drunk and feeling the beginnings of a drug induced euphoria, you don’t care if it’s raining freaking piss from heaven. You just don’t care. You open your mouth and catch the drops and think jesus christ himself is feeding you liquid gold. We cranked the tunes and listened to Shine On You Crazy Diamond echo around the mountains. We were all kind of floating. And then I heard it. What the hell was that? Singing? Guys singing? Huh? Was that....fucking 99 bottles of beer on the wall? Except they weren’t saying beer...."98 bottles of"......."97 bottles of."....we turned down the Pink Floyd and listened. Hell, I was so relieved everyone else had heard it too because if this was gonna be my hallucination for the night, I was gonna be pissed. Fat Albert would pay. But no, we all heard it. "95 bottles of Pepsi on the wall, 95 bottles of Pepsi.......if one of those bottles just happens to fall, what a waste of".....soda? SODA?
A few of us started walking in the general direction of the singing. I stopped short when I got to the clearing where the singing guys were. Dude. No. No fucking way. Bad mesc. Bad trip. No bueno. I shook my head to clear it. You ever do that when you’re tripping out? You think you can rattle your brains back to reality. But I shook and shook and those guys were still standing there. Boy scouts. No, not boy scouts. Men scouts. And it wasn’t bad mesc. It was real. They were sitting around a raging campfire in full boy scout regalia, the tie and cap and shorts and knee socks, I kid you not. They stared up at us, a couple of teenagers all fucked up on drugs, wearing soaking wet clothes, staring with incredulity at these guys and they just stared back at us until we were caught in some bizarre showdown of the stares with these dorks. Finally, I broke the contest and just blurted out, “It’s fucking boy scouts!” The lead dude (you can tell he was the lead guy because he was holding the lantern) stood up and said, kind of obnoxiously, “That’s Eagle Scouts, young lady. Eagle Scouts.” Well holy fuck, we were in the presence of super scouts! I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being an Eagle Scout, but there’s something wrong with being an Eagle Scout in full uniform on a camping trip singing 95 bottles of Pepsi on the wall at 10 pm on a Friday fucking night. Something seriously wrong. So I did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances. I said, “Hey guys. Wanna party?”
Something about reporting us to the authorities. Something about disrespect for the wonders of our natural habitat. Something about bears coming down from the mountain and eating us for breakfast.. We got bored with their lecture and we headed down toward the lake. By this time the mesc was really starting to take hold. That familiar taste on my tongue, the light buzz in my head, the feeling that this all may or may not be a dream and that I was suddenly sure I had the answer to life, the universe and everything and it wasn’t 42. No, it was.......the Statue of Liberty. What?
Oh yea. There it was. See, I had somehow found myself sitting on this huge boulder that was sticking out of the lake. And I was piloting this boulder because it was gonna lift off and take us toward...toward there. You see it? Up there on the top of Bear Mountain? It’s Lady Liberty. Lady Fucking Liberty waving her torch and she’s whispering to me. It’s like a Neil Diamond song come to life. What? You don’t see that? How can you not see it, it’s like 700 fucking feet tall? I start humming America the Beautiful. And I think about the Eagles Scouts and how I disrespected nature by making a bong out of a tree branch and I may have a tear rolling down my cheek like that Indian in the commercial.
I think it’s when I shouted Give a Hoot, Don’t Pollute, that they pulled me off the boulder and dragged me up to the tent. I was repeating over and over, Lady Liberty loves you, Lady Liberty loves you and then guys, tell her to put out her torch cause she’s gonna start a forest fire and Smoky is gonna be pissed the fuck off. I had to make a break for it. I had to get over there and put out the torch before Lady Liberty fell asleep, like that time my grandfather fell asleep with a cigar in his hand and almost burned the kitchen down. I was just about to devise a plan to escape the clutches of my friends when a wave of bliss hit me. Oh yea, Buddha was calling. Buddha was calling. Buddha was saying.....chill out, dude. Relax. I went limp. I laid down on the grass and stared up and oh shit, it had stopped raining. The sky had cleared. Hallafuckinglujah and all that. I stared up at the stars and thought I could count them. I started singing softly, "one billion stars in the sky, one billion stars in the sky, if one of those stars just happen to fall........" and then I shit you not, I am not making this up, I swear on the heart of Neil Diamond, a shooting star streaked across the sky. Wish, wish, I gotta make a wish, what the hell would I wish for? Oh yea. Music would be nice. Waste of a fucking wish, but I was in this alternate universe high. Ok, buddah of the shooting stars, I wish for some music and no more Pink Fucking Floyd please.
And I heard it. A harmonica, softly playing something familiar, something that brought back memories of a hot summer day on the back lawn of the local church, lots of kids and...oh, fucking hell. This is what I wished for? Kumbaya on a fucking harmonica with backing vocals by Eagle and the Scouts? Yea, this is where it ends. This is where I find the warm beer and drink enough to put me to sleep. The bliss of mescaline can only take you so far. When you got overgrown boy scouts serenading you with church songs in the middle of a fucking mountain, there’s only so far Fat Albert’s product can take you.
And listen, I'm not gonna say anything about Adlous Huxley and the doors of perception or any of that shit that I went on about for five fucking hours every time I swallowed a tab of mesc. I was not a hippy, damn it. I was just young. And stoned. -M
Frankly, it all kinda sucked. Watching TV. Eating frozen waffles. Another day. Another pack of cigarettes. Another thought that I should invest in Aunt Jemima stock. Fuck. I must be putting that broad's kids through college by now. I need to get in on this action. Fast. But wait. Hold on. Barney might do Betty in this one. Flintstones sex and waffles. He might do her here. Hold on. He might. I have a good feeling about this one. I have a real good feeling about this one. I might see a little Betty ass move up and down on a Barney shaft. Riding it till she screams about a Brontosarus or something about stone mail or whatever the fuck. I didn't care. I just wanted to see Barney getting some.
I waited all day. In bed. Well, everyday til "Mayberry" would come on the TV then get up and go to the local Junior College. That god damn whistle, those fishing motherfuckers, were the sign that I couldn't be naked any more and my dreams of Barney having a threesome with Wilma and Betty were dashed for another day.
Hey dude, you gotta dream high but you gotta expect the lows. When Andy Taylor came on? It meant Barney Rubble wasn't gonna get his cock sucked today. That's the rules of the game and I had to play them.
I was pretty much satisfied with my cartoon sex dreams, music playing and beer drinking and drug using routine. Nothing Special. Just a Monday.
But one day, my friend came over with some LSD. Something he wanted to do. He had never done this kind before. I hadn't either, but you get used that with acid. New paper, new day, new time, meh. It's all the same. Just shoot it back and become "frunk ".
I need to explain something. "Frunk" is a term we came up with. The amount of speed in some hits lets you consume an incredible amout of beer. You can drink all night. Your body, to onward lookers, is completely shit faced, but the drugs in you kept you awake. "Frunk." Fry plus drunk. Get it? We were pretty clever there. Stop smiling, dammit. We were kids, ok?
Anyways, he brought over the acid. Said we need to do this now. Like our fucking life depended on it. Like if we didn't fucking put this on our tongues now, Superman couldn't save Lois Lane and that god damn little Mr. Mxyzptlk would take over the world cause you were too sober to get het him to say his name backwards. Kltpzyxm. That's fucking hard to do.
Superman needs your help. Drop that acid. Save the world.
Ok. Let's drop it. See, I'm easy like that. You don't really need an excuse not to go college. I mean, fuck man, they make beer to be drank. They make acid to drop. And the make reruns of Mayberry to be watched. It's like god himself touched me that day and commanded me to watch what Gomer would fuck up next. Like the 13th Commandment..Thou Shall Skip School, Drink Beer, Drop Acid and Watch Reruns While Thou Will See Jimi Hendrix Singing In Thy Wallpaper.... Dude..we had to do it. God said so, dude. God, dude. Gimmie some hits and let's get on this holy quest.
I'm just kidding. God never really had a part in this. I just really wanted a beer.
So we both dosed and went to my friend's house. TV time! Yeah! I know some of you are gonna bag on me for just watching TV on acid and not exploring nature or some shit like that, but fuck man. I did this every fucking day. This wasn't a fucking field trip to fucking some wilderness to get in touch with my inner beauty. This was fucking Monday. That's all. Or maybe Thursday. Come to think about it......Does anyone have a watch? Ok....hm.
We both had our own 12 packs in tow. Cause you gotta have fun. And to have fun, you needed beer! You had to have beer on acid. Too much strychnine fucks your hands up and you shake like there's no fucking tomorrow. Try to light a cigarette blasted out on cheap LSD and you will understand the frustration. Lighter...lighter needs to meet cigarette...lighter is moving to much..god dammit.. light...meet cigarette...fuck..these two need too meet...fuck! Beer slows the shakes down. Lets you relax a little. Plus Natural Ice was on sale. Dude, free acid and four dollar 12 packs. Fuck dude. I need to buy a lottery ticket cause the turtle is all fucking win win tonight, baby! Fly me to Vegas cause the craps gonna be rollin' sevens for me.
You need beer. Well, I needed beer.Thats how bad my hands were shaking. I needed it everywhere we went. This dope was cut babe. I was losing my mind. This wasn't pleasant. Another beer. Stop the mind. Light the smoke. Close your eyes. Oh fuck! Don't do that! Don't close the eyes. Well fuck. It look like I'm just screwed then. When everytime you blink you see some weird mix of Barney Fife fucking Betty Rubble, you know you might have done too many drugs.
Cartoons fucking skinny guys with one bullet is not a pretty image.
We get to my friend's house and I'm losing it. I need to get this shit out of me. Something. The roof? Fuck no. I still have stiches from last week. The grass? No. That will just get me all dirty and shit. Inside? No. The pool? YES! I got to my friend's house, just wanting one thing. To get into the pool and stop this fucking shaking. Turtle in the pool. Twelve pack in the pool. The water was cool and the beer was warm. It was like a bunch of cold met a lot of warm and all met inside of me. It was like a big party where I was the only one. I floated around for what seemed like a lifetime. Drinking beer and forgetting reruns and finally feeling ok.
Ok. Pool time done. Sun coming down. Let's eat and find what's going on inside. C'mon turtle. Out of the pool. You need a smoke and the beer is getting wet.
What did you say? Oh shit. My brains still talking. Oh shit. I thought this was over. Hold it together, turtle. A few more hours til you can do the dance on the sofa and detox. Hold it together.
Big house. Huge house. Maze like house. What was I doing here again? Where am I at? Hey dude! On the table!
Oh yeah. See this is the part of the story you have to think to yourself "turtle really doesn't think things through, does he?"
My head moved. Something was different. I suddenly thought everything was wrong. Yeah, fuck you. Welcome to LSD. I know. But this was different. Something was missing....my beer. Fuck. I left my beer outside...fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.How the hell could I do something like this? Forget car keys? Sure. Forget your mother's birthday? Sure. Forget your girlfriend in a park while police are surrounding her? Sure. But the beer? FUCK! What was I thinking? Someone could grab it!
Then I saw it.
And just yelling at it.
"You ran away from me!"
That little son of bitch thought it could get away! Well, it was fucking wrong. It was going to learn a lesson this time. I backed myself into a corner and drank those fuckers as fast as I could. Each time I drank one I made it look at the other cans. Faced the can into the open box. Slowly squeezed it and asked the other cans...." So who organized this escape anyways? I will make you talk. I have ways." Then grab the can from inside the box that wasn't talking. And just slam it.
Mescaline v. LSD. You be the judge.
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