Heat Dreaming and Waving

For the second day running, Seattle's withstood near ninety degree afternoons, and hot dry nights with every window in the city thrown open. And how intimate this city becomes then. Not merely that its citizens walk about in as much dishabille as the law'll permit, but further that, with every window thrown open, every sound of our private lives is shared as far as sound will travel. Last night, recovering from a fever that'd stricken three-fourths of my family, I was kept awake by fights, orgasms, exaltations, sighs, music, telephones, and closing time noises from everywhere in a three block radius at least; and though I desperately wanted to sleep or maybe not, I rejoiced in these sounds. How well I suddenly knew these neighbors I'd never meet. How surely had I been these people at one time or another, in this city or the other. Today as I walked around Capitol Hill with my lady and our babe, I examined everyone we passed, and thought, "You gave me something last night you'd be reluctant to admit--didn't you?" And sure enough, nobody admitted nothin'. And now it's another night.

Laaaaast Night, She Said

Sleeve: "I'm a visionary."
Baby Jane: "Yeah, you see the future waaaayyy before it doesn't happen."

Buffo

. . . is the world's strongest clown. Or so he says, but I won't be arguing the point with him.

Froggy Ready to Go A-Courtin'

Here's another shot from our Northgate Target trip a week back. Say, Einstein, what the hell is that on your head? "Teethe and tug," indeed. (Detail pic on Flickr; click through & find if you so wish.)

Future Ghost

(After such a mad torrent of blissful good news [see previous post], it seems appropriate to keep things in perspective by posting something self-indulgently morbid. I reckon everyone fantasizes about what sort of obituary he'll receive, but I like to leave nothing to chance. So, to commemorate the eventual plummet of my pen name, I present this written monument to the future late Sleeve.)

Sleeve Consequences, (age here), passed away peacefully in his electric chair (date here) after a protracted state of "ice"-induced psychopannychy. A self-noted would-be author of numerous fictions, poems, and acerbic one-liners about how golf is dumb, he devoted his last years to growing a mustache on the inside of his upper lip. His taxidermized head sits in perpetual state inside the helmet of the Canterbury Inn's suit of armor, where through the wizardry of animatronics it sticks out its tongue and yells "fuckpig!" every time some drunk lifts up the visor. Sleeve is survived by his amanuensis, his augoeides, and his--his--hell, his "real person behind the pseudonym". Goddammit, there's gotta be a better word for that, a fancy Greek-derived three- or four-syllable word starting with "a". Anyway, mourners are encouraged to make donations in his memory to the Gnostic Nudist Foundation for the Prevention of Feline Serotonin Syndrome, a front charity for a pyramid scheme meant to enrich his--his--y'know, his "guy who writes under the assumed name". Christ, I wish I knew some Greek (and no, I don't mean some "Greek," either, you sick sick souls).

One Little Victory

I embrace every scrap of good news as it comes, for what else have we but to hope a little fucking bit once in a while.

The Subversive Spider-Man

This brand new item was found at Seattle's Northgate Target last Sunday. Spider-Man seems to have a message for today's youth that, shall we say, paints him as a bit of a scofflaw. Perhaps J. Jonah Jameson was right? (Detail picture on my Flickr site; click through if needed.)

My Dopey Dope Misnomers, and Dubya’s

Only a day after my last post, I realized I’d made a wretched error of the squarest sort. Dig: 4-methyl aminorex is known colloquially as “ice,” not “glass”! “Glass” is apparently a term for methamphetamine when smoked (though, as I’ve never personally heard this term used by any genuine dopehead, it could be strictly a construction of the media). Whereas the term “ice” can allegedly also refer to methamphetamine, the term “glass” is never used for the exotic, elusive 4-methyl aminorex.

I would have immediately altered my last post to reflect this realization, but the Psychedelic Warlords (the drug subculture equivalents of the “Secret Chiefs” of esoteric Freemasonry) threatened in no uncertain terms to “disappear [me] in smoke . . . and man, that ain’t no god-damned joke, you square punk poseur narc,” and so on, were I to attempt to cover up this shameful lapse. Therefore I must cop to this pre-scripted confession, attaching my name to the bottom in traditional forced contrition.

In my defense, I can only sputter that, hey, at least I’m more on the ball (if not the dope) than the White House’s Office of National Drug Control Policy. Not only do their lists of “street terms” retain such fusty old smokable chestnuts as “Mary Jane,” “viper,” and “Bolivian marching powder,” they contain a whopping bongload of disinformation. Here you will learn that Benzedrine, Methedrine, and Dexedrine are all slang names for Ecstasy, as are Khat (in reality a cathinone-containing leaf from Somalia) and—beyond bizarrely—“monoamine oxidase.” Also, “Charlie,” a time-honored fustism for cocaine, is thickheadedly identified as heroin, and—most pointedly—“ice” is identified as either “cocaine, crack cocaine, smokable methamphetamine, methamphetamine, methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA), phencyclidine (PCP)”—but not 4-methyl aminorex!

Plenty of other fun to be had here. Next time you go to Third and Pine to score some cocaine, try asking for Cecil, Carrie Nation, foolish powder, Henry VIII, oyster stew, or the “All-American Drug.” Marijuana more to your taste? Get hip, White House style, and start calling it goblet of jam, Kate Bush (!), haircut, square mackerel, or the white-haired lady. Need a new kick? Try one of the following improbable crazes: “Tina” (“methamphetamine used with Viagra”), “balling” (“vaginally implanted cocaine”—whatever that means), or “five way” (“combines snorting of heroin, cocaine, methamphetamine, ground up flunitrazepam pills, and drinking alcohol”). Just remember to know your limit, take it easy on the “great bear” and “loads of laundry” (fentanyl and methamphetamine, respectively), and be sure not to get “up against the stem” (addicted to smoking marijuana).

Anyway, witness my hand and seal and what have you,

Sleeve Consequences,
Enemy of the Wasted Proletariat

Because my list is on my list . . .

. . . and whiskey's in my beard.

Other Paraphernalia Modeled on Hemp Rolling Papers

Crack cocaine molded into a short, nostril-width tube

Syringe fashioned from hollowed-out stem of Papaver somniferum

Glass pipe made of “glass” (4-methyl aminorex), in which to smoke “glass” (4-methyl aminorex)

Nembutal suppositories sold with a prosthetic finger, made of course of solid Nembutal, with which to jam the pills up your ass—the hygienic way

’Lude-coated ’Ludes (note: coating may contain 2% or less of: methylcellulose, gelatin, FD&C Red #40, fuckin’ badass pharmaceutical-grade “roofies”, and/or xanthan gum)

Tobacco rolling papers

Post-Millenial Markdown!

(or is that pre-Millenial? anyway. . . )

Beast's real mark devalued to '616'

At least as far as Canada's currently concerned. Must these damned revisionists strip the glamor out of everything? What would Uncle Al say?

Furthermore:

Ellen Aitken, a professor of early Christian history at McGill University, said the discovery appears to spell the end of 666 as the devil's prime number.

Hmmph! Obviously not a professor of mathematics! Of course, "the devil's prime number" could mean "not, for the love of God, a prime number," the devil being a liar and all that. Or perhaps the reporter--or HE--is putting words in Prof. Aitken's shapely Canadian mouth.

Another One I Purple Slept Through Ass

Somehow I keep missing these things till a month or two go by, it seems. Anywhateverthehowhell, my old friend Brent Busboom got to interview Laurie Anderson for the Reno News and Review -- just a quickie, but a cool coup for the good fellow nonetheless. Cheers across the over-a-decade, Brent!