Never More Rave On -- 4/9/2003
By now, my reputation as a degenerate retrograde has been more or less permanently sealed in the minds of the types of people who keep track of such matters. I've ingested enough Scotch to hornswoggle a mess of moose, and my glandular systems have been warped by a Skittles rainbow of party pills. Every day, I find a new prescription bottle in some undusted corner of my mansion. One from 1971 appeared a few nights ago. Naturally, I popped a few reds, washing them down with the Veuve Cliqout that I use as a digestive aid when Roger serves me sweetbreads. Within minutes, I was slithering along the floor like a garter snake, my body simultaneously wracked by a prickly sensation of burning from within and the feeling that I would soon convulse with God's most hellacious orgasm. Needless to say, I took some more pills. I found myself in the emergency room, somewhat gratefully, before Aaron Brown came on.
It was a dreadful, wonderful night. I won't do it again soon, unless I find another bottle. But regardless, I take full responsibility for my behavior. My mad flame-out was mine alone.
Our busybody government seems to believe otherwise. The infamous
Rave Act has returned, this time by the hand of Senator Joseph Biden, the Party Butcher Of Delaware. I guess with a war raging and the economy collapsing, high-ranking Democrats don't have any actual work to do. That said, certain aspects of this bill don't bother me much. I've visited several crack houses in my time, and they all pretty much resemble those described in the novels of Donald Goines. They're not pleasant, and more than vaguely dehumanizing. Good crack, though.
But from there, the bill declines. As I wrote in my groundbreaking collection of widely-reviewed essays,
Give Me Libertine Or Give Me Death, "the man who seeks to prevent property owners from leasing or renting their space to medical marijuana festivals is the man who strikes at the very heart of the American dream. Nightclub owners are the backbone of our society, and they should never be punished."
In the early 1990s, along with my silent partner Suge Knight (not the famous one), I owned and operated a hotel and restaurant that also hosted all-night dance parties. The first time someone OD'ed at my club, I buried her out back. But after that, I learned to call the cops, slip them a couple of Franklins, and go on vacation for a week or so until the heat died down. I didn't need some paternalistic law to teach me the difference between right and wrong.
I like drugs, and I think they should be legal. At the very, very, very least, one shouldn't be prosecuted just for having drugs on the premises of one's business. If that had been the case all along, I'd have been an eight-time loser every year since 1987, except for 1989, when I was in jail for something else. So for once, my Beagles, I urge you to oppose your government and
take action. Raves are an important part of our society. Why, without raves, we wouldn't have the music of Paul Oakenfold or Moby, we wouldn't have adults wearing Cat In The Hat costumes, and the world would be short a few hundred thousand glowsticks.
All right, so maybe we should ban raves. But purely for aesthetic reasons. The Rave Act is still a bad idea.
Now you must excuse me. I'm going to drive down to Delaware, where I assume Senator Biden still keeps an office. There I will snort a delicious line of cocaine. It's Biden's property. Therefore, my drug use is technically his fault.
Prisoner Number 34093. Senator Joseph Biden. Convicted April 10, 2003, letting some guy snort coke in his office. Sentence, 50 years. Up for parole...in 30.
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