Thursday, January 4, 2018

essay: The Mind is an Appliance, And It Needs Some Grease to Work Right

Holy shit, I still get acid flashbacks, and the tragedy is that they keep getting shorter. It's been so long since Owsly. Leary passed with the true calling. Even that sabre headed shrink from Canada, the one who said LSD is great stuff, is either dead or infirmed by now, so no one gives a flying fuck if I have to go to my grave without ever having another decent acid trip. Fucking tragedy. It's never been more needed.

Miraculously, I was having the best, brightest and longest flashback just last night, like a gift from Jerry Fucking Garcia. I still have a few of his neck ties. Next time I steal a Brooks Brother's suit, I'll make a point of accessorizing for drugs. Back in the day it was cricket to talk to as many people as possible about the drug experience, now people don't talk about shit other than Game of Thrones, so you can see that fantasists are in liberation-limbo. Free the mind, my ass. I was alone in my hospital chair, best furniture in the hovel, watching old television reruns. LSD is a godsend to people who have little to do but suffocate in the arm pits of yesteryear. I was watching a rerun of Welcome Back, Cotter. 

It was the episode in which the blond teen bombshell, Bambi, moves from L.A. to the Bronks, enrolls at Low Comedy Central Highschool, and creates havoc among the horny teens. At one point in the episode, I thought Arnold Horschak was going to spray Vinnie Barbarino with an AK, and maybe take out Juan Epstein, the Jewish/Puerto Rican hoodlum who charmed us all so. He should have nailed Beau DelaBarre first, in my opinion, but Arnold didn't really have a gun, it was a hallucination. Maybe it was his lunch bag. Time and space is plastic when one is tripping. There's no way of confusing relativity with shithead stasis. The lines separating Twinkies from Tomahawk missiles perforate , like the lower portion of your heating bill, and carefully tears away. The universal mind cannot live by common perceptions alone. 

As usual, Horschak doesn't get poon, Vinnie learns something only a television comedy can teach, the foolishly handsome Beau comes to realize that he is better off with lower hanging fruit, as beauty is a bear trap. He decides to date someone homely. But the universalist learns more than the object of observation. You learn history from fossils, a fossil learns nothing from you. And a book on the shelf is always beating it's meat. Only the mind can deliver you from cognitive paralysis, and the poor mass of reason needs something extra these days. Acid. It should be legalized. It's fab.