Wait… what? Vol. Sixty-Super-Spectacular!

Writing is a lot like smoking weed. If you smoke the same strain all the time, you don’t get any higher by smoking more. You just get lower on weed.

Writing is the same, in that one has to have more than one voice. This is despite the fact that it is generally considered that “multiple voices” are sure sign of mental illness. One of these statements is true. Or both. I’m not certain that the two ideas are mutually exclusive.

 

Happy 420…20…20!

It is indeed 420. 4/20/2020, to be exact! We’d had hope that this would be a much larger celebration this year. Thirty days of 420 only comes around once! Alas, it is not to be and so we must celebrate together while we’re all apart. Our resident botanist, Carlton Milhouse, has composed some 420 thoughts for us this year. These are after the fashion of  T’was the night before Christmas. Carlton hopes you all enjoy it and all of us here at the Ale 81 Inn wish the very happiest of 420s to everyone!


 

T’was the eve of 420

T’was the eve of 420 and all through the land

Not a head shop was selling, for this act had been banned

The storefronts were shuttered by some governor’s plan

due to some virus; they say it came from Wuhan

The people were chastised and sent to their room

to prevent what was certain imminent doom

Like sheep they all went and meekly obeyed,

away to their homes and there they then stayed

It will be for a month, certainly no more than two,

or until we determine what the hell we’re to do

Now bring on that Fauci and that scarf lady too

We’re led to believe that they might have a clue,

but when one is a hammer then all is a nail

and this is where experts most often fail

For billions of dollars we bought Red China’s shill

We’re all still paying, but I doubt he ever will

With a sickening thud we have screeched to a halt

while media pundits seek to find fault

A banquet for jackals and vultures to dine

They don’t care about shutdowns, they’ll manage just fine

Now Wuhan! Now Corona! Now Covid 19!

Now shut it down! Shut it down! Mass quarantine

When government shuts down it’s the end of the world

Now that it’s our turn? Your true colors are unfurled

The networks persist in their daily charade,

never missing a chance for some point to be made

that has nothing to do with the crisis at hand,

almost as if they had this all planned

And oh! How the spending! Let’s break the bank

so when this is all over we’ll have you to thank

for tiding us over with this little loan

for this time off from work (through no fault of our own)

There are still special favors in the money they’ve spent

Your little tidbit is to buy your consent

The airlines and bankers again are in line

and just like the last time they’ll make out just fine

All that debt will be added to the burden we pay,

but somehow the fat cats will all skate away

Each relief package tied up with a bow

with motives as pure as the wind driven snow

So the stem of this pipe I hold tight in my teeth,

as the smoke encircles my head like a wreath,

because all papers are gone; there are none to be had

Since the head shops are all closed, it’s really quite sad

That last book of Zig-Zags was really quite dear

between rolls of Charmin for wiping my rear

Now we’ll scrimp and we’ll forage for each vital need,

all the while praying we don’t run out of weed

If things grow too desperate it wouldn’t be wrong

to smoke up your bud in a green apple bong

Still despite all of this madness and disarray

Snoop Dogg still came with his magical sleigh

So look in your yard, you may find something there

Because he didn’t make contact, he took special care

But I heard him exclaim, ere he flew out of sight

I’ll see ya’ll next year, ’cause this shit ain’t right!

 

Pencilneck Liar

 

Schiffbuttholeface

 

 

With our sincere apology to the Beatles, the following is set to the tune of Paperback Writer

 

 

 

 

Dear Hollywood: will you read my script

It took me hours to write, my name is Adam Schiff

It’s based on a wet dream of the DNC

and I’ll need a job when they learn that I’m the Pencilneck Liar

Pencilneck Liar

 

It’s a dirty story of an evil man

and his dumb supporters who don’t understand

that they’re too stupid to know their own good

It’s a thankless task, but it’s the job of a Pencilneck Liar

Pencilneck Liar

 

It’s ten-thousand pages, give or take a few

I’ll be writing more in a day or two

It can be more salacious if you feel the need

I can rewrite it all because you know that I’m the Pencilneck Liar

Pencilneck Liar

 

I’ll be super famous, sell Disney the rights

Do the world premiere in my circus tights

When this is over you won’t find me here

I’ll be in Hollywood or in prison, I’m the Pencilneck Liar

Pencilneck Liar

 

Pencilneck Liar

Pants are on fire

Pencilneck Liar

Pants are on fire

Pencilneck Liar

 

My Pinball Wizard

a reflection shared from our resident Botanist, Carlton Milhouse


 

It’s been a good harvest this year. Throughout the summer months my days were consumed with my herbalogic enterprises, allowing little time for anything else. As with any fruitful venture in life it is only after reaping the reward that we step back to contemplate what we have done. That is if we ponder it at all, which I’ll admit I often don’t.

In high summer (no, not that kind of high) the days are long and filled with labor from dawn to sometimes well after dark. One of the few things that help me to endure these rigors is music. I entered this season with a heightened awareness for the monumental anniversary this year has marked. My playlists have been liberally seasoned with those iconic releases of fifty years ago. Led Zeppelin 1, Abbey Road, In the Court of the Crimson King…. these only scratch the surface. All of these and more have always been in my repertoire, but if only for nostalgic reasons, they have enjoyed a renewed appreciation. Now, as we fast approach 2019 in the rear view mirror, I would like to share some reflections spurred by another of that epochal class of 1969: The Who’s Tommy.

Earlier this year I made a trip to Cleveland’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame with our very own Celeste Wilde. It was actually my first trip there. I have to say that on the whole it was a pretty cool place, but honestly I didn’t come away completely “wowed” by it. Maybe it’s Cleveland, maybe it’s me, but for any who have been to Cleveland lately you’ll have to agree: Cleveland is not the rock and roll town it used to be. Within it’s steel and glass frame on the shores of Lake Erie the Hall of Fame does it’s best to replicate at least some of that. Alright now, I’m not trying to dis the place. If you’ve not been and you like rock music I encourage you to visit, but make it a day trip if you can. There is no place I will recommend staying in Cleveland.

The highlight of this trip was discovered nestled within the bosom of The Who exhibit. Wandering about we stumbled upon a darkened nook where there stood two items. First there was a token dispenser, much like one might see in any arcade. It was equipped with an optic register to read the wristband they issue with admission. A few short steps away there stood a work of beauty: a full sized, humming, flashing pinball machine. Tommy’s Pinball Wizard no less! Celeste and I are the anti-Yogi. We’re a little dumber than the average bear, but even we could figure out how this worked. Out of a four hour visit to the Hall there was easily an hour and a half spent playing Pinball Wizard.

Before that day I was convinced that we had entered an age where the growing majority of our population knew nothing of pinball machines, those having been surpassed long ago by gaming consoles and other digital forms of entertainment. On the ride back from Cleveland the conversation settled about the pinball experience and I was quite heartened to learn that the pinball machine has indeed enjoyed a renaissance of sorts. Our conversation on that ride continued to weave in and out of the pinball experiences of our youth.

My own exposure to this venerated form of entertainment came, as it did for most of my generation, from arcade tents at various fairs and festivals. My first forays with the device were exercises in frustration. I came away from these convinced that these machines had been designed for the sole purpose of eating quarters. As with anything one only becomes proficient with practice, for which I was sorely wanting. Growing up on a farm in that era did not present a multitude of opportunities for this, but this was to change when I began high school.

Although I lived in a rural setting, it was at the time on the periphery of a suburban school district.  Most of my classmates lived in the suburban sprawl that came to life through the 1960s and 70s. I was a member of that small contingent known affectionately as the “country fucks”. The school was just off of route 40, known as it is in those parts as Broad Street, and for kids like me this brought an entirely accidental benefit. It meant that for at least a fews days of every week I had access to such adolescent diversions as were not accessible from the farm. These included a steady supply of members of the opposite sex, recreational drugs and yes, even pinball. Blessed with neither an abundance of disposable income nor the requisite social skills to engage successfully with girls, I naturally gravitated to pinball. I know. Sad isn’t it? Well, thats life.

Being involved in a number of after school activities I was left with some period of time between these and dismissal from the day’s classes. Thus developed the ritual of making the trek out to Broad Street, turning right and walking the few blocks east to a local pizza joint called Dino’s Bar and Grill. In those years there were a variety of choices within walking distance for a youth to be misspent. My selection of Dino’s can be attributed to nothing more than the familiarity of it’s name. Some of you may recall a song from the rock band Thin Lizzy, The boys are back in town, in which the “boys” were known to hang down at Dino’s Bar and Grille. I had enough sense to know that my Dino’s was hardly that Dino’s, but as the song was still in current rotation on FM radio I took it as an invitation. I’ve not been back inside of the establishment to see whether or not it’s interior is likewise unchanged, but my suspicion is that it remains what it always was: a dive. Within the boundaries of the same city there is another establishment (also of the dive class) which proclaims itself as the cultural center of the Midwest. I have often mused that this may account for the prevalence of depression and suicide in the region. I could, of course, be wrong.

As our conversation continued I recounted to Celeste how I had developed my pinball skills back in the day, down at Dino’s Bar and Grille. This in turn led to one particular occasion at Dino’s which I had previously filed away into some dark and dusty corner of my memory. When I had first begun these forays out to Broad Street they were mostly solo. Some other ne’er do wells of the same age class would frequent Dino’s in those after school hours. Some of them I knew casually; most were just strangers. One of the first that I became acquainted with at Dino’s (and later on to a greater degree at school) was a young man by the name of Tom Gray.  Young Thomas would later earn the moniker Tom Tripper. That is a title that probably bears little need for explanation to most, but I will elaborate further in due time.

We actually made our first connection due to the fact that we smoked the same brand of cigarettes, Viceroy. I don’t recall exactly when I migrated from these to the more conventional Cowboy Killers, but I do remember that in one of our first meetings Tom explained to me that they had become his smoke of choice because the brand was positioned in such a way at the local IGA store as to make them quite easy to boost from the shelf. Tom wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a font of knowledge for practical matters such as boosting cigarettes from retail shelves.

As a relative stranger to the neighborhood it was good for me to have Tom as a companion. Though he was no older than I, he carried a certain street cred due to family connections. Tom was the younger stepbrother to the children of his mother’s second husband. By this time those lads were well off in college, but apparently they had blazed quite a trail before him. For good or ill Tom was a known quantity, whereas I was unmistakably one of the country fucks. It also helped that he was quite handy with a pool cue and this was his recreation of choice. And smoking green. And, later on….

I mentioned that he came to be known as Tom Tripper. In the mid seventies if you were in high school, and you were looking to score your first hits of acid, it was always beneficial to have a collegiate connection. Young Thomas was the embodiment of this maxim. He was very smart in one way especially. Tom recognized early on that he was a consumer, and thus was not suited to act as a distributor. His stepbrothers no doubt aided in this decision. In any case, though Tom never sold acid this did not mean that he would not share. His most famous exploit by far was a live demonstration, in the middle of the cafeteria, of how to drop microdots under your eyelid. To this day I won’t even do that!

Tom and I eventually became a regular pairing on the pool table at Dino’s, when it was available. Whenever there was a wait we had the choice of two pinball machines to pass the time. I don’t recall the theme of either of them, but there was one in the rear near the pool table and the other in front, in what passed for their dining area. Most times we would stick to the machine in the rear because if we were playing pinball that meant we already had a quarter up on the table. Over the course of some months I became pretty confident on that machine.

The key to successful recreational drug use is in understanding one’s limitations. The success is defined by nothing more than avoiding incarceration. Others may disagree, but that is the crux of the biscuit my friends. The youthful tripper is still filled with that euphoria, the blissful elation which engenders the sincere belief that anything is possible. They have not yet been instilled with the requisite paranoia needed to navigate the harsh cruelty of the adult world. It is in that very perilous mental state that I entered Dino’s one afternoon with Tom.  I was about to discover one of my limitations.

On this particular occasion Tom had some purple barrel to share. These were like a microdot, but larger. It was rumored that they were a stacked double dose of purple microdot, though I couldn’t say for certain whether or not this was true. This was not my first encounter with the drug, but this was to be the first time I had entered Dino’s in such a condition. My prior experience up until that point had been solo events; sitting up all night in my bedroom with the White Album over my headphones, the textured patterns in the ceiling paint depicting a re-enactment of bloody European history. That was a safe place for me to trip. This was very edgy. If I’d not been along with Tom I am certain I would not have dropped that hit when I did, around 3:00. It had to have been about 3:45 when we arrived at Dino’s. The experienced psychonauts in our audience can do the math and make an educated guess what happens next.

This was a warm day and quite sunny. Waveforms were already merging with heat mirage rising from the pavement. For the inexperienced tripper on their first public outing this was very unsettling. Once we reached their door I was eager to get inside. Without even looking into the back room to confirm it, I was immediately struck with the sensation that the table was already occupied. I felt hostility reaching out for us. The next thing I knew we were at the pinball machine at the front of the shop, facing out to the passing traffic on Broad Street. That was good. A geographic reference, a way to remember where I was.

Somehow I managed to extract a quarter from my pocket and successfully guide it into the slot. It jolted me when I felt the machine hum to life in my hands and then, for some time that seemed like an hour, I was part of the machine. I really felt it! This was a hallucination. I had lost all four balls inside of five minutes and probably did not even register 10,000 points. And that was just O-Kay. Lights were flashing everywhere, all sounds were compressed about my ears, and Tom drops his quarter. Then I got schooled.

I can’t pretend that I’m some kind of pinball aficionado.  I don’t scan Craigslist to find machines for sale and you won’t find me stalking the county fair circuit to see what is the latest in a twentieth century technology. They are a vestige of my youth and thus I enjoy them. Having the opportunity to play for an extended time for the first time in decades can revive a lot of memories. I maybe have not logged enough hours at pinball to be qualified for this judgement, but for my money Tom’s performance that afternoon was the most impressive display of pinball skill I have ever witnessed. He had at least twenty minutes in before he lost his first ball. And I was left paralyzed there at his side on a stool, hypnotized by the blur of the ball, the passing traffic and the sounds of the machine which seemed to come from everywhere but the machine. That day I learned one of my limitations: do not trip in public places. Tom could do it and many others can, but I am not one of them. It is a rule I have lived by, lo these many years.

Celeste’s reaction to this tale actually took me by surprise. She smiled and seemed genuinely amused, while at the same time her smile wore an underlying expression of a look which said “are you really that much of a dumbass?” After responding with the obligatory “what?”, she said ” He’s your pinball wizard? Tom, Tommy…. duh?”

Wow! That was like getting hit with a club! See, for me the memory was always about the trip, and the name Tom Tripper. It matched. It just stuck to his memory over the years. Until that instant in the car I had never thought of it as Tom, Tommy the Pinball Wizard. She was right. Tommy was all about breaking free of limitations. Both of them.

High Tea with Carlton Milhouse

High Tea w Carlton Milhous

Greetings, Stoner Nation! It is I, Carlton Milhouse. Your botanist.  This is an abbreviated special 420 eve edition of High Tea. With me. Carlton Milhouse.

Ooooo-Kay…..for starters. There are no doubt those among you who have said to themselves, ” Self, I think Carlton Milhouse has hung it up as a blogger and it concerns me.”  Okay, maybe not so much that second part, however I am here to reassure all that I have not. Hung it up as a blogger.

High Tea has been on a hiatus for a variety of reasons. Not the least of these is that as a professional botanist the months of March and April are quite busy. Stated simply in StonerSpeak:

Botanist = Vocation             Blogger = Avocation

Another reason for the prolonged absence was that I had to play wheel man for Ford Wenty while he was covering SXSW, which by the way was pretty strange. The man still scares me, but he scares me a lot less when I’m behind the wheel.

Finally, there is the simple fact that as a devoted stoner one is often rather inconsistent in their follow through. Guilty as charged.  In any case do look for a resumption of our High Tea feature Sundays at 4:20, though for the season we will only appear bi-weekly.

Well here we are, at 4:20 eve. The night before that most sacred of days.  Have you done your duty? Are you all greened up? Are there those near you who are without green this holiday? Do see that you share with those please. The world will surely be a better place for it. If we could just get every person on the planet, all of them get their bake on at the same time, just once! I’m tellin’ ya, if we could make it happen, that would the starting point for everything right there. We could start to really make this shit work right.

Is your house in order? Is your glassware cleaned? Replaced your screens and stocked extra? What about pipe cleaner? And make sure those fireplace lighters are full. You want to have a supply of matches too. If your stoner brother or sister shows with a wood pipe you need matches.  All of these things are important. At Thanksgiving you always make sure there are enough plates, cutlery, serving platters, casserole dishes, roasting pans….all of that before you even begin on the menu! Come on! It’s a big day, you make sure you’re prepared. 420 is no different my friends.

In parting, friends, I wish to share a final admonishment. I have been informed of a meme circulating which advises stoners to be sure and “put milk and cookies out for Willie Nelson before bed tonight”. I heard that and I thought “what the fuck?”

PLEASE

Do not insult the man, okay? You leave out beer and Lays chips. He doesn’t care….any fucking Lays chip, okay? Hell you could even put out some shit like Pringles, but NOT milk and cookies. The last time somebody did that I found puke on my front doorstep on the morning of 420. I’m not saying it was actually Willie…..but it seems too much of a coincidence to me.

Make sure your munchie larders are well stocked, have a designated driver if you need one, get your bake on one and all!

HAPPY 420 STONER NATION!!!

 

we’ll see you back on Sunday 28 April

 

High Tea with Carlton Milhouse, edition 6

High Tea w Carlton Milhous

 

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

Let us begin. Back to the Earl Grey and little throwback to some gold shake this week, an unpretentious cut from the eastern slope named Don’t have to be Green to be Mean. How are things for ya out there in Stoner Nation? Ya’ll got yer bake on? I do, so….

Don’t have a theme in mind this week so I’m just gonna spitball here. Somewhere in the process maybe we’ll find a theme. Or we won’t. Some random observations. Go to a city, any city of say at least a million population or more. Drive around town, not on the freeways, but through the city from neighborhood to neighborhood. You notice a certain thing.

When you get down in the inner city, any city now, compared to the neatly lined symmetry and strip malls of the suburbs, the landscape grows ugly. Not ugly, but chaotic, unkempt. These are the communities where the working classes and the dependent classes coexist. It’s not about race, but it is a fact that ethnic minorities constitute a higher percentage of the population in these areas. These are not “black” neighborhoods any more man! All us poor motherfuckers livin’ up in here! These neighborhoods are populated by a socio-economic class, irrespective of race. It is a class that is, whatever the reasons, for the most part not in an upwardly mobile trajectory. If you pull into a gas station in one of these neighborhoods, whether you purchase product or not, they do NOT want you the customer to use their precious restroom. Down here, where everybody already ” in da shit “? Yeah, we don’t want no more. Keep your shit and piss to yourself.

You wanna pull in to the same chain of gas stations, out in suburbia. In suburbia their shit doesn’t stink. At least that’s what they think. They are mostly full of shit, but because it’s their own they are unable to smell it. So come on in to our gas stations with working air pumps, emptied garbage cans and clean white floors. Hell! You don’t even have to buy anything. Come and drop your deuces and piss to your bladder’s content. Our plumbing can take it. No one here actually ever takes a shit at work. Eww!

It’s true. It’s all true. Go and test it yourself. And be smart Stoner! Do your homework. Find out where the asshole jurisdictions are to be sure you’re not holdin’.

Okay….that didn’t get us anywhere, did it? I mean theme wise. Where do ya go from that, right? Let’s see……segue, segue…..umm. Nope. Got nothin’!

So here’s my other weird shit from this week. A lot of us in Stoner Nation keep odd hours, whether because of our habit or our work hours. How many of you have ever listened to Coast to Coast AM? This is an overnight radio program begun by the legendary UFOlogist Art Bell and currently steered in the able hands of George Noori.

The other morning I’m up and out in my car at 4:00 AM. Switch on the radio at the top of the hour to catch any news broadcast and I left it on. Then it rolls into Coast AM….. what a fucking freak show! I guess it was like open phones night and I’m listening to this dude go into some real grade A bull shit. He was “speaking to us” from his humanoid form, a being from the Pleiades star system sent to warn us of our impending insect apocalypse. According to said “being” we were driving all of the insects on this planet to extinction with our permeation of the airwaves with cellular systems. We are literally “frying” all of their “tiny little antennae”. Then it got really weird, followed on by a response call from a self described Klingon born-again christian. Apparently there is some kind of universal Klingon political apparatus which has drafted their rebuttal for any public proclamation. He was prepared to provide us, the shocked and awed listeners, with the official biblical interpretation of what the previous caller had just said.

It’s true. It’s all true. Wish I had a recording. You had to be there. Come on, man! It’s 4:00 in the fucking morning, you’re out for a ride, you got your bake on…..and then you’re hearing this? In another time this could have incited a War of the Worlds type incident. What if other civilizations are listening to any of these broadcasts? Will there be a “holy shit! They’re onto us!” ?

We are truly enjoying an advanced standard of living when there are people like this sitting up at night to call in to these programs. And there are advertisers that pay for the program. And suckers like me, out there listening as I enjoy my 4:20 AM bowl. It’s been on a long time. They probably reached their apex under Art Bell during the X-Files years. It’s mostly harmless and mildly amusing stuff, until you begin to consider this: some of these people may actually be out during the daylight, driving on your roads. What the fuck happens if you’re out there and one of these inter-dimensional dipshits suddenly gets beamed back to the Mother Ship? You think that car is gonna drive itself?

Still no closer to a theme, are we? That’s what a good bake will do for you! Brilliantly random, not randomly brilliant. Or was that the other way around? Well at any rate this has been a truly high tea. Kudos to the Don’t have to be Green to be Mean!

Join us next week when we will live stream an actual human sacrifice. Or we’ll visit a mattress factory. I’m not sure yet. Until next time, stay stoned my friends!