nanobrain
Bluelighter
Psychic Sam
exerpt from "My Drugged Life, a Fuckup's Tale" coming soon?
Psychic Sam went crazy. Best guitar player, one of the best ever, photographic memory for sound and emotion tapping skills which went straight to the Source and outa his Gretsch, kinda like Jerry's. Formerly. Before the shakes started from all the meds and he no longer wanted to play. Catatonic Schizophrenia, to be precise, or so the trusty DSM-IV tells us. First he went crazy and then he went to jail.
We helped him get there alot faster. He was taking the local, we just showed him how to get on the express, helping him spend his quarter-million trust fund on flavorings of every flavor.
The last time he was committed for arson – all the antipsychotics he was on by this time were mightily torquing his zeitgebers, so he'd sleep all day and jones all night, and so there he was, taking a 3 a.m. walkabout, staring at this "For Sale" sign on someone's groomed lawn, and the thing in its wrongness was frayed and incongruous in the general exquisiteness of the silent and beautiful night, and this completely did not jive with Psychic Sam's sense of aesthetic sensibility, and so he, of course, set it on fire.
But that was after he went through about $50,000 smoking crack in a Seattle Motel-6 with two homeboy twins named Cecil and Cedric, literally smoking the remainders of his trust fund and his ashen soul.
This was of course after our car was confiscated by the Mexican police at the border and we spent the night in a Tijuana jail, and a month homeless in San Diego with no car to get home to Colorado and no money to pay the bail on the car, for having a half-finished joint in the door panel of his beautiful spaceship-style Isuzu. After he drove straight to the TJ border checkin bypassing the queue of waiting cars, then burned rubber backwards to get to the end of the line. Of course we were arrested, following a K-9 assisted search, but this was after about 20 martinis after bout a half gram of coke and two E’s we bought off these militant lesbians in La Jolla who were friends of his graduate-school brother at Stanford.
This was of course before he totaled the Isuzu car by driving it through the wall of the live-in beer cooler at LiquorMart which pissed us off in no small way since LiquorMart was The place with the cheapest beer and for two weeks we had to source it elsewhere, meaning the half-filleds K brought from his work at the local minibrewery.
If I were to die in a liquor store, I'd ask to die in LiquorMart. Sophomore year, I calculated that it would take close to 1,000 years of uninterrupted drinking for me and my 10 closest friends’ friends to polish off the stock of booze they had on hand at any given time. They had a lot of booze they didn’t even know they had.
But we are talking about psychic Sam. The LiquorMart fiasco was of course after he dropped 10 hits of excellent 100-mike Blue Octopus blotter in our fish tank and the fish swam around really, really fast for about a week and then all died on the same day. A waste of good blotter but an interesting ichthyologycal experiment nonetheless.
All this of course happened after his psyche was torn by a massive rift precipitated by a Full Flight dose, ~ 900 mikes of Black Pyramid Gel acid, 2nd day, second set, July 1987 Ventura county fairgrounds, Grateful Dead…but that’s another story?
exerpt from "My Drugged Life, a Fuckup's Tale" coming soon?
Psychic Sam went crazy. Best guitar player, one of the best ever, photographic memory for sound and emotion tapping skills which went straight to the Source and outa his Gretsch, kinda like Jerry's. Formerly. Before the shakes started from all the meds and he no longer wanted to play. Catatonic Schizophrenia, to be precise, or so the trusty DSM-IV tells us. First he went crazy and then he went to jail.
We helped him get there alot faster. He was taking the local, we just showed him how to get on the express, helping him spend his quarter-million trust fund on flavorings of every flavor.
The last time he was committed for arson – all the antipsychotics he was on by this time were mightily torquing his zeitgebers, so he'd sleep all day and jones all night, and so there he was, taking a 3 a.m. walkabout, staring at this "For Sale" sign on someone's groomed lawn, and the thing in its wrongness was frayed and incongruous in the general exquisiteness of the silent and beautiful night, and this completely did not jive with Psychic Sam's sense of aesthetic sensibility, and so he, of course, set it on fire.
But that was after he went through about $50,000 smoking crack in a Seattle Motel-6 with two homeboy twins named Cecil and Cedric, literally smoking the remainders of his trust fund and his ashen soul.
This was of course after our car was confiscated by the Mexican police at the border and we spent the night in a Tijuana jail, and a month homeless in San Diego with no car to get home to Colorado and no money to pay the bail on the car, for having a half-finished joint in the door panel of his beautiful spaceship-style Isuzu. After he drove straight to the TJ border checkin bypassing the queue of waiting cars, then burned rubber backwards to get to the end of the line. Of course we were arrested, following a K-9 assisted search, but this was after about 20 martinis after bout a half gram of coke and two E’s we bought off these militant lesbians in La Jolla who were friends of his graduate-school brother at Stanford.
This was of course before he totaled the Isuzu car by driving it through the wall of the live-in beer cooler at LiquorMart which pissed us off in no small way since LiquorMart was The place with the cheapest beer and for two weeks we had to source it elsewhere, meaning the half-filleds K brought from his work at the local minibrewery.
If I were to die in a liquor store, I'd ask to die in LiquorMart. Sophomore year, I calculated that it would take close to 1,000 years of uninterrupted drinking for me and my 10 closest friends’ friends to polish off the stock of booze they had on hand at any given time. They had a lot of booze they didn’t even know they had.
But we are talking about psychic Sam. The LiquorMart fiasco was of course after he dropped 10 hits of excellent 100-mike Blue Octopus blotter in our fish tank and the fish swam around really, really fast for about a week and then all died on the same day. A waste of good blotter but an interesting ichthyologycal experiment nonetheless.
All this of course happened after his psyche was torn by a massive rift precipitated by a Full Flight dose, ~ 900 mikes of Black Pyramid Gel acid, 2nd day, second set, July 1987 Ventura county fairgrounds, Grateful Dead…but that’s another story?
