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!

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!

 

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.

 

High Tea with Carlton Milhouse, Edition 3

High Tea w Carlton Milhous

 

Good afternoon! The clock on the wall says it’s 4:20. If it’s Sunday that means it is High Tea with me, Carlton Milhouse. Your botanist. So, if you haven’t already, prepare your tea and your greenery and we shall begin.

Last week I had the good fortune to be joined by Celestial Wilde and we completed the High Tea recap of 2018. Our final conclusion was….meh. This week, however, I am solo in studio and am partaking of some Evergreen Dream. This is a delightful sativa in a nearly emerald green fluff with hints of balsam and cedar. It’s a real Rocky Mountain high. After sampling some it put me in mind of some Rocky Mountain history and some of my earliest encounters with Ford Wenty, the Ale 81 Inn field correspondent.

I first met Ford a little over ten years ago when my botanical enterprises were still in their infancy. In those years I regularly made the long runs from northern New Mexico, through Colorado and on, all the way to Montana and back again. We first became acquainted through an associate of mine, Javier, under less than conventional circumstances. Not at any time since can I say that any subsequent encounters with the man have even approached conventional.

He no longer travels as extensively as he once did. I did have occasion to meet with him fairly recently, however, at an “undisclosed” location. I’m going to take advantage of this edition of High Tea to share with you my lasting takeaway from the latest encounter.

I met him at the agreed upon hour at a park and ride lot for ride sharing, right off of the interstate. There were no other vehicles in the small gravel lot but his nondescript rental sedan. I pulled up beside him, shut off the engine and locked up as I got out to head to the passenger door of his car. The windows were all up, tinted to reveal nothing, but the aroma of weed was unmistakable. As anticipated I was greeted with a sweet cloud upon opening the door and getting in.

Most people are afraid of this man. It gives some hope for the human race to know this: maybe some people have more sense than we give them credit for. He scares me. Still. Not in a Freddy Krueger or homicidal killer in the room sort of way. It’s the unpredictability of the man. Sadly this trait is exhibited very strongly in his driving, but our ride that day was relatively short.

We were headed to a breakfast diner, fifteen miles or so away. On the way he smoked me up with some premium bud and launched right into a really strange topic. This is one of those disturbing elements about Ford. Often meeting with him, especially for strangers who have not been introduced previously, there is the absence of any of the traditional niceties or introductions. He proceeds directly into whatever occupies the front of his mind at the time. If you have known him a while you must always be prepared that he may resume some conversation that he may have had with you weeks or even months before. This fortunately wasn’t the case on this trip, but even in his most lucid moments Ford can be difficult to follow.

“Hey Carlton! You know anything about silent films?”

“Uhh…a little bit. I guess.”

“Okay. You ever heard of Sergei Eisenstein?”

“Uh, no. That’s not one I know. I know a couple of the really old German ones, you know, like Nosferatu and Metropolis. And like old Charlie Chaplin movies, but no. Never heard of that dude.”

“Yeah, Eisenstein was like the Soviet Union’s Leni Riefenstahl…”

“Who?”

“Oh…never mind. He was a propaganda filmmaker for the Soviets.”

“Okay, what about him?”

“Back in the mid to late eighties Laurie Anderson did a brilliant multi-media arts presentation adapting Eisenstein’s famous film The Battleship Potemkin. You should check it out. Sure you can find it on the web somewhere.”

“Which?”

“What?”

“I mean which one, the Laurie Anderson thing or the actual movie?”

“Oh, uh…the Laurie Anderson thing, but yeah…the movie too. Yeah we are approaching a Battleship Potemkin moment, Carlton. You know that, right?”

He gave me one of those looks over his glasses that really makes me nervous. I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about and so I did, as I have done before in these cases, simply nod, laugh nervously and agree with it. Whatever it is. “Yup. Heh-heh….sure are.”

When we got to the diner Ford ordered his usual special, Heart Attack on a Plate, with two eggs, hash browns, bacon and biscuits: all smothered in sausage gravy. Service was fast and the chow was good. We were completely baked so almost anything would have been good, but this place like most that he seems to find was a jewel. Over breakfast he shared with me his latest project.

“I’m doing a study on tolerance.”

“Tolerance?”

“Yeah, tolerance. What does it actually mean? How are we defining it? You know, because it seems like the definition is changing. Either that or there are a lot of people misusing the term.”

“Okay, Ford. How do you mean?”

“Right. Let’s just take this diner as an example. Fifty years ago a patron here complained to the owner because he allowed blacks to sit at the counter. The customer was very loud about it too, you know. He was almost shouting Hey, I don’t wanna have to sit next to no fuckin’ niggers. The owner says, alright asshole! Get outta my store! Yay! Everybody cheers.”

He paused here to doctor the refill on his coffee. I didn’t say a word. I knew he wasn’t done.

“Then thirty years ago everybody starts whining about second hand smoke. The owner tells all his smoking customers , Nope! Sorry, can’t smoke here anymore. Yay! Everybody cheers. Twenty years ago? A customer starts bitching because the owner has allowed one of those faggot couples into  the diner. The dumbass is wailing, Yer goin’ to hell for lettin’ them faggots come in here! The owner says, you get the hell out of my store! Yay! Everybody cheers.”

Another pause there, for emphasis? I guess?

“Ten years ago…..you get one of these painfully obvious transgenders. Wants to use the ladies room, right? Shouldn’t be a big deal, you know, but some patrons had to make a fuss over it. What does the owner do? He brands the complainers as haters and he tells ’em they can leave too. Yay! Everybody cheers.”

Ford stopped here and proceeded to attack the remainder of his plate with vigor. After several minutes he gave no sign of resuming his rant. I was left to form my own conclusions, which is often the case with Ford. I am usually more confused than when the conversation began, only slowly beginning to understand later what he may have been saying.

A burly looking character emerged from the back of the kitchen hailing Ford at the counter. Ford responded and the two chatted for a couple of minutes. No introductions were offered, but I gathered from the brief exchange that he was speaking with the owner and that this was actually the establishment’s last day in business. A short time later Ford settled the bill and with no lingering sentiment or long goodbyes we left the diner. I still wasn’t certain what all that had been about in there. Once seated back in the car Ford concluded.

” A few months ago a customer came into that diner wearing a MAGA hat. The owner got really pissed off and insisted that the customer leave.”

He stopped there, but that didn’t fit with the rest of the narrative. So I volunteered ” Yay! Everybody cheered?”

“No Carlton, not this time. There just wasn’t anybody left to cheer. This tolerance is a funny thing, you know?”

I think I know what he meant, but I’ve been wrong before. Maybe some of you have ideas of your own. Let us hear what you think.

Well, that’s our High Tea for this week. Until next time, I’m Carlton Milhouse, your botanist. Stay stoned my friends!