LSD (or, Confession #5)

Albert Hofmann, the Swiss dude who discovered LSD in 1938, died on April 29 at the age of 102. One of my goals in life is to live past the 100 year mark. It just makes sense to me. If this guy, Bob Hope, and George Burns can do, so can I. Of course, I'd like to live forever, but that invention is a long way off.

I could tell you lots about the studies and experiments with lysergic acid diethylamide in the quest for curing schizophrenia and other psychiatric disorders or the experiments conducted by the CIA and other intelligence agencies during the Cold War, but that you can easily find on the web. Instead, I will tell you two other stories.

The first is about Father Acid, a tall Rolling Stones fan who lived in my residence during my undergrad. He always had copious amounts of all kinds of drugs at hand, and he liked to trip on acid. Oddly, I did not take any kind of recreational drug during the first two years of my undergrad. I stayed with alcohol, a depressive, psychoactive drug that is probably more dangerous that several of the illegal drugs, but society has deemed it to be acceptable. But, back to Father Acid.

One day, he decided to leave his residence room and live in a tipi (or tepee, teepee) with two other dudes in a park by the river in winter. I wondered how he would survive without electricity to run his stereo system, but that did not seem to concern him. The funny part of the story is that the conservation authority eventually found them and pinned a note to the tipi to alert the squatters that there were living on government land and that they had to move.

Shortly thereafter, he was arrested while in possession of 1000 hits of acid and numerous other drugs, like barbiturates and amphetamines. I remember that he cut his hair prior to his trial, but I have no idea what happened to him after that.

I am running out of time, so part two will have to come tomorrow. I will leave you with a tip: don't buy LSD on the streets as much of it is laced with rat poison.

part 2

Confession #4

While living in residence, during my undergrad degree, I watched The Young and the Restless. Yes, it's true. Gary S. had two things in of importance in his room: a coffee maker and a TV.

I had a discussion recently with a friend about residence, and I recalled that I lost three things in residence:

1) A magnetic chess set. I am certain that Peter D. has it. Please mail it to me.

2) An old-fashioned toaster. You know, the ones that permit toasting only on one side, and then you have to turn down the sides and flip the bread over. Look at this page if you want a general idea of what it was like. If you are wondering what I would do with an old toaster, since they are now so sophisticated, I would turn it into a guitar amplifier.

Sharon B. has my toaster, but probably sold it ages ago in a lawn sale. She had a Camaro too and a very very short boyfriend who looked like a shrunken version of Ricardo Montalban, without the muscles, charm, wardrobe, or looks, and with an unfortunate mustache, the kind which 16 years old boys try to grow. Now that I think about it, he looked nothing like Ricardo Montalban.

3) Two coffee mugs. Gary S. has these, or had them.

Several of us, including Running42k, if my memory is serving me correctly, kept mugs in his room, and we all made a daily trip at 4:30 to drink coffee and watch Y&R.

All of this not that terribly interesting, but I have to confess that I got hooked. It was like crack. In the summer, I tried to fit my work schedule around Y&R. I would work late shifts at the bar, rather than early ones, so I could see the show before coming in to work. My dad did not have a VCR, so taping was not an option, but I did make a few trips out to a friend's place to see the shows that she taped if I missed them.

After my addiction passed and I tuned in after several months of staying clean, I discovered that absolutely nothing had happened for months, except that some other dude was playing Jack, and we all had to pretend that it was the same guy. It was like when they swapped out Kinchloe on Hogan's Heroes for some other black guy, because they assumed that no one would notice.

Anyway, I am ready to start pursuing my acting career, and I plan to start with a soap opera. If you know anyone hiring actors, please let me know. I could do a good Victor or Brad.

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Confession #3

I cannot eat a banana in public, at least not in the normal way. After a brief web search, I would conclude that I am not the only one. One person said that she can't "even eat a banana in public without first breaking it into small pieces..." which is exactly what I do. A knife and fork would also work, in a Seinfeldian way. I am not sure why I have this issue. Maybe it's my fear of looking like a monkey. After all, I have very long arms. Maybe it's the phallic nature of this tropical fruit.

I read a post by someone else who asked: "How do you eat a banana in public without it looking obscene?" I'd like to know that too. I once read that it's OK for men to eat bananas in public (something I do not believe), but it made me wonder why such a double standard would exist.

Which leads me to consider that I may have a psychological problem. After all, there are others who have no problems with public banana eating. I am reminded, of course, of Leonard Cohen.


It's good to be back. I was occupied on the weekend, and then I had to finish a long report, but that is over, thank god.

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"You've Got a Nice Box"

I have a confession: I use one of those shopping carts. You know, the black ones with the big wheels at the back and the small wheels at the front. You've seen many old people with them, some ferrying small lap dogs. Others carrying stashes of cat food, kitty litter, budgie food, or live crabs, bleeding chicken legs, or salted fish. There is that bag lady whose cart is full of bags and probably something dead.

The holes in the cart always caused me problems. I'd lose cans on the pavement, so I placed a box inside. One glorious day, I got an impressively large box from No Frills that fit perfectly. It made my shopping easier. Suddenly, I became the envy of the old people. I detected murmuring while shopping some time ago at No Fills. I felt a gaze of the hot and tired eyes upon me. I turned and found three old ladies looking at me. It was 100 degrees outside and they were all wearing floor-length winter coats. One said, perhaps too longingly, "you've got a nice box." I worried that they were about swarm me. I moved towards the potato chips, their eyes following me.

I remembered those days when I used to stand in line at banks. For some reason, a retired person always ended up in line behind me, breathing down my neck. Well, they were too short to really breath down my neck, but there were definitely breathing down my shorts. I felt mushy breasts pushing into my back. I gather they thought that pushing me would make the line move faster. I stood my ground and even pushed back, adjusted my back pack to put some space between them and me. I still felt pressure against my back. I turned around a few times and glared. That is why I was an early adopter of banking machines and internet banking. I needed my space.

I do have a nice box, thank you very much. And no, you can't have it.

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Confession Number 1

In my pre-adolescent days I listened to KISS. I owned their records, knew the lyrics to most songs, and could name the members while most of my friends would refer to them as the Cat or the guy that spits blood.

There were some signs that indicated that I should not be listening to them. They were, even to my young ears, misogynistic. Later, I realized that the music was remarkably one-dimensional, some of it insipid, and most of it generally pointless. Of course, the worst offence was Beth. I realize that some of you may have sentimental attachments to that song. The truth is that I enjoyed many slow dances back in high school to that song. But, let's face the fact that this song will not be remembered as an important song or as seminal song writing, although I bet it led to the spilling of semen on a few occasions - get it: seminal ... semen.

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