Trip A Dee Doo-Dah

LSD's daddy, Albert Hoffman, recently passed on, entering the minute chemical world he discovered and helped to enhance. I was never that crazy about acid; too intense, too long, too roller-coastery. I much preferred psilocybin, large amounts of which I consumed throughout my 20s, experiencing delightful images and third-eye perceptions, with some occasional anxiety, as one should never really trip on a busy Manhattan street. Still, diving head first into the shifting plasma pool provided more ups than downs, and there are times when I'm nostalgic for those sunny, trippy days in a small boat on a Long Island inlet, the water like glittering mirrors, the trees alive and talking in the warm breeze.

Acid provided some of this, but I had to endure some horrorshow moments, the worst being a Ball State frat party that my friends dragged me to, big, dumb white jocks bending and melting in my face, grunting like drunken animals, jumping and stomping to The Eagles, AC/DC, and Kansas. Not my scene sober, and certainly not a favorable place while peaking on blotter acid. Somehow I held it together until I could crash in the back seat of my friend's old Buick, listening to "Riders On The Storm" over and over again, driving my buddies nuts, but soothing my nerves as I stared at a full moon staring back at me, a giant florescent eye gazing down on creation.

Of course, it's impolite if not irresponsible to speak favorably about such things. In high school, we were constantly told how weed and acid would turn us into zombies, tall tales of madness and violence dispensed by teachers who snuck swigs of booze between classes. Anti-drug movies sharpened the pitch, but few took them seriously, so absurd their scenarios and scare tactics. Here's a beaut I hadn't seen until today. It could also serve as a PETA PSA, perfect for conditioning a generation of straight-edge vegans. (Jon -- are you watching?)



But when it comes to the reality, I leave the last word to the great Bill Hicks.