Distilled

Metal in your mouth

Itch all over

Exotic women speak in tongues

Foreign yet familiar

Though all eyes speak seduction

Hers shone through glass

clear, green, amber

And black

at the bottom of each

Each time curse the witch

yet still take her potions

Solmonath

Janus, indifferent, departs the stage

Leaving welts from the tips of his flail

Bright dots where their hides frost pink

Like blind nestlings in snow

Mud month now prevails

It’s progeny proceeds from purification

Upon the old sabbath now

Heavens spill the healing tonic

Water – Earth, sacred bonds

Reshape, make new earth

Frozen mud awaits

Vernal awakening

Solmonath haed grises

 

High Tea with Carlton Milhouse, edition 5

High Tea w Carlton Milhous

Greetings Stoner Nation! If it is Sunday (and it is) and the clock on the wall says it is 4:20 (and it does), then it is time for High Tea, with me….Carlton Milhouse. Your botanist. Prepare your tea and your greenery, and…..

Okay! It is time. Today it will all be decided. In a few hours it should be determined beyond any remaining doubt whether or not the New England Patriots, under the Belichick/Brady regime, are the greatest team in league history.  In any endeavor when one individual or organization dominates the field for as long as the Patriots have there will always be people gunning for you. Like the legendary gunslingers of the Old West, after so many years on top it leaves no place to just quietly fade away. The only way to exit is with guns blazing. It would be a perfect symmetry for the legend to end where it began, against a Rams franchise which appeared previously during their exile in St. Louis. I could not imagine any way possible to top the dramatic conclusion of Super Bowl LI. That would have been the perfect exit point right there. For the ride to end with anything less than another Super Bowl victory is completely anticlimactic.

In a little over a year we will reach the 50th anniversary of the passing of the Super Bowl trophy’s namesake, Vince Lombardi. It is entirely believable to posit the idea that fifty years hence the very same trophy would bear the name of Bill Belichick. I am left to wonder, though: will there be an NFL in 50 years? And, if so, will it resemble anything like the NFL of today? Today’s league looks nothing at all like the league of 50 years ago, 1969, the last year before the AFL-NFL merger. In the past decade the NFL has drifted, not navigated, into the murky waters of popular sociological trends. This is because the league’s leadership has fallen away from the very capable hands of men like Pete Rozelle, a man who understood and revered the game, into the hands of technocratic types Paul Tagliabue and Roger Goodell.

The most pointed of controversies that the NFL has navigated in recent years is the whole stand/sit for the anthem fiasco. Goodell’s helmsmanship has been akin to that of the ill fated Titanic and worse. After failing to miss that iceberg the first time around he actually reversed course to strike it once again! Even with the media’s determination to make this the dominating story a league under the direction of a Pete Rozelle would never have allowed it to become a vehicle for an agenda. All of this began with the pink armbands and socks during the month of October for breast cancer awareness. The minute the NFL signaled that they were willing to be used as a platform for one cause they opened the floodgates to became fair game for any and all. The Washington Redskins. How racist. Where is the outrage for the Kansas City Chiefs? Then there was the domestic violence awareness program because of the ill considered actions of a few of the league’s players. I do not for a second mean to condone any of those acts and it is proper for the league to have well established and uniformly enforced code regarding these behaviors. That does not entail making the league a vehicle for virtue signaling their advocacy on behalf of the victims. Oh, and the concussion protocol. Again, yes it is good to evaluate and monitor, but can we get real here for a minute? It’s FOOTBALL, okay? It’s a fucking game played by grown men for lots of cash because there are lot of people out there willing to watch. And with breast cancer awareness or no, at least 35-40% of that audience is female. Yes, there are actually women who like these rabidly toxic displays of masculinity on the gridiron every Sunday.

The way things are headed it is only a matter of time before the LGBTQ community is up in arms because of the homophobic use of the terms “tight end” and “wide receiver” used to designate certain player positions. I don’t care to dwell on these questions in their broader social context, that’s not my thing, but where it comes to football? The only toxicity I see is of a decidedly effeminate variety. Some might say that is a part of the pussification of society. I might be inclined to agree with some. These social trends will go the way they will, with or without their cheerleaders, but they are no matter for the NFL to concern themselves with. They should stick to football. Bill Belichick and the New England Patriots have done this for the past 19 years with pretty impressive results. Perhaps with a sixth ring at the end of the day we might someday look forward to a Commissioner Belichick?

Okay, that’s my rant for this week. Regardless your partisanship let’s hope this Super Bowl proves to be a great contest and that the most toxically masculine team prevails.

Enjoy the game and until next time… stay stoned my friends!

 

Sylvan Welcome

Dark murmurs out on the moors

Mother senses change most subtle

She can not speak it

yet still they sense her fears

Seeds of rumor planted

Falsehoods feast on misinformation

growing fatter by the hour

As they craft their parchments

for posterity and other flights of fancy

Do not join to this fool’s errand

Pay heed the whispers in the forest

hear and know her verse

While cities burn and tremble

find comfort and shelter

where memories are long

High Tea with Carlton Milhouse, Edition 4

High Tea w Carlton Milhous

 

If it’s Sunday (and it is) and the clock on the wall says 4:20 (and it does), that means it is time for High Tea, with me, Carlton Milhouse. Your botanist.

Hey! How’s everybody doing this week? All blazed up? Ready? Okay, good.  As for myself the High Tea mug is loaded this week with some orange pekoe black tea and the fruits of a hybrid strain I experimented with this past summer. This plant was derived from a very hearty but relatively low yield sativa and a more delicate, yet highly potent, purple kush. I had no expectation that this should evolve into a viable strain on it’s own, rather it was for the purpose of developing a strain of the sativa which would thrive in a higher ph soil.  I did save and cure some of the lot because of it’s intriguing appearance alone. I call it Kermit’s Bane: like the legendary frog this weed also finds that “it ain’t easy being green”.  The rich evergreen hue of sativa 00166 is overwhelmed with crawling, fuzzy tendrils of fuschia, wrapping subtly around every bud. It takes on the appearance of farmland awakening from winter’s blanket, when the fields are fully abloom with purple vetch. On this grey winter day it seemed a fitting choice, and…. I must say I have no regrets!

Just gonna jump right into the shit this week. First, sorry we missed you last week. Like much of the rest of the country we experienced some inclement weather. I’m not going to lie to you: there was no weather related power outage, no snow emergency that in any way prevented our publication. We got totally baked and went out and played in the snow! Okay, so there’s that…

Umm…next up: Was Carlton Milhouse a child model?  There are some vague rumors circulating that I, Carlton Milhouse, was some kind of child celebrity. Before this gets out of hand I will make full disclosure. Yes, as a juvenile, I did do some modeling for advertisements. I was in no way a “child star” or “celebrity” and my portfolio was very, very brief. Here is a sample of my proudest achievement in the field:

 

baked

 

Okay, maybe I’m not so proud of it, but hell! I was only 17! It does account for how I’ve turned out, doesn’t it?

Alright, on to other matters. This week we mark the one year anniversary of the passing of the great Mark E. Smith of The Fall. A whole fucking year already!? Wow! Where did that go? As he sang in Stephen Song he remains “our hero still deeply loved”.

The government shutdown, in case anyone actually gave a major fuck, was ended this week. I guess. Until the next round in three weeks, or whenever. ZFG

Next week will be our Super Bowl edition with High Tea completed a full two hours before kickoff, leaving you plenty of time to get your bake, drink and munchies on with us before the game starts. At the risk of alienating some of our audience I will come out as a supporter of the Pat’s in this contest. You can love ’em or hate ’em, but there is no arguing with success and experience. I’d like to see Tom get his final ring and retire to what I am certain will be a lucrative broadcasting job. Or who knows? He may go the route of other NFL quarterback greats like Norm Van Brocklin or Bart Starr, or a more recent case, Jim Harbaugh. I wouldn’t want that aggravation, you know? I mean what the hell does this guy have to prove? He can just go and bang his supermodel wife on a private beach somewhere for the rest of their days. Hell, that’s what I’d be doing!

Oh! There I’ve done it! I have stumbled into the dumb shit of the week category: I have exhibited my toxic masculinity. I’ve got a few words for you Gillette! They begin with:

fuck you with a flexible, 36″, two-headed dildo

Those are my first thoughts. There’s more, I’m sure, but that’s good for now. Toxic masculinity? What the fuck is that? They not selling enough razors to women? What the hell is the motive to run this piece of stupidity?  Wait…what’s that? The Patriots play at Gillette Stadium. Oh yeah…..that’s right. Shit! Now I’ve got more to think about!

Alright. We’ll have all this sorted by next week. Until then, stay stoned my friends.

 

Road Trip (one)

Long drive, listening to Eno

Sledding the opiate slopes

in a warm cocoon console

The insular solace

measured by the center line

mile markers

exit numbers memorized

A favored inn by unlit ramp

Ideal for surreptitious landings

Suites accommodating

for frenetically idle reflections

Anonymous at the liquor agent

Clerk eyes the Absolut

takes the money, smiles

Fuel for the ten hour oblivion

before the road beckons once more