My Highness (Categories)

Note: I wrote this to read on stage at the Short Attention Span Hour - a monthly event organized by the Writers of Central Florida or Thereabouts. When I began, it was supposed to be just a story about smoking pot. It turned into something resembling an early portion of my unplanned memoir.

I was high once... for three years. It's not that difficult to do. In the morning, you perform the proverbial wake and bake. And you stay high until you go to bed. 

One might wonder how this happens...

I lived just outside of Boston until I was thirteen, then moved to Florida in time for high school. I had already smoked marijuana in Massachusetts – I was a precocious child – but, in the late 70’s, in Florida, it was everywhere. 

My parents chose to live in the Stuart – Jensen Beach area, on the east coast, a hundred miles north of Miami. Where the Indian River ends at the tip of Hutchinson Island, the St. Lucie Inlet forms the St. Lucie River, which then splits into two wide branches and many tributaries.  The small city of Stuart is surrounded by water on three sides. The breeze was constant. We never used air conditioning. But, for a restless teenage kid, there wasn’t much to do besides play sports… surf… and get high.  So… I did.

Stuart, Florida

High school can be very cliquish, but I was fortunate in that I straddled the usual social boundaries. I played football, so I was ok with the ra-ra crowd. I surfed, so I carried a bit of that sun-drenched mystique. I could hold my own in the classroom - some people respected that. And the reliable drug connections I developed meant I always had weed, which made me acceptable to… almost everyone else.  

While the many waterways around Stuart made for a truly scenic area, they also made it an ideal location…  for smugglers. During Prohibition, it was rum from the Caribbean. During the 70’s, it was drugs from Columbia and Mexico. Obviously, there were many successful trips, but it wasn’t unusual for small vessels to approach the coast, and, if they detected danger, they would toss their illicit cargo overboard and haul ass. It was common for bales of ocean-soaked marijuana to float up on shore to be discovered by some early morning surfer or fisherman. And, of course, we called it… seaweed.

Seaweed

You could dry it out, and it gave you a nice, mellow buzz. But you had to smoke a lot of it.That's where Helen came in handy.

"Helen" was a pipe that belonged to my friend Mark. The bowl on this thing was about the size of a small coffee mug - perfect for cheap seaweed. This stuff was usually loaded with stems and seeds, and it wasn't worth the effort it took to clean it. You would just stuff a whole fistful of it into the bowl, fire it up, and be on your way.

The problem was , sometimes, when seeds got hot enough... they'd burst... kind of like popcorn.

We christened her "Helen" after the most destructive volcanic event in the modern history of the United States.  It killed 57 people, destroyed 250 homes, 185 miles of highway, 47 bridges, and 15 miles of railway. This was, of course, Mt. St. Helens.

Smoking seaweed out of this ginormous bowl... was kind of like our own little Mt. St. Helens. Every now and then, a seed would explode and shower you with cheap weed in various stages of incineration.

We were always driving around in my friend's car, listening to music and getting high. So, a typical experience with Helen might sound like this...

*lighter flicks*  *inhale*   *POP*  *screams*  *pat flames on your lap*

This would be followed by the hysterical laughter of those in the car who weren't currently on fire.

Eventually,we had little burn holes all over the front of our entire wardrobe. It was around this time we began playing a game we called “Categories.” This was a way to challenge ourselves mentally, even when we were getting high.

We picked two categories that were entirely unrelated, and came up with a term or name that included both categories – usually by slightly bastardizing one of the words. Frequently, one of the categories was music or movies, and the other involved body parts or fluids… because… you know… it was more fun that way.

I’ll give you an example. I don’t recall how it started, but one of our first attempts involved movie titles and… excrement. I was pretty happy with my effort - Logan’s Runs. But the winner was - Two Stools for Sister Sara.

We would keep throwing out ideas until somebody had one that left us laughing too hard to continue.

I applied to the state’s two major universities – the one in Tallahassee and the one in Gainesville - and was accepted to both, so I had an important choice to make. I had no idea where to go until one day I saw an article in Playboy magazine – we only read it for the articles.

This was their very first ranking of top party schools. I remember looking at the list, and not seeing any that interested me. Then I saw a giant footnote at the bottom. It said, “You will notice that the University of Florida is not on this list. That’s because we feel it would be unfair to compare amateurs with professionals.”

The next day, I enrolled at the University of Florida.

If you know me at all, or have heard me read before, you know that music has played an important part in my life. Let me give you some background on the music scene I stumbled into upon arrival in Gainesville…

Bernie Leaden and Don Felder met when they were in Gainesville High School. Felder started a band called the Continentals. Also in this band was a guy named Stephen Stills, who was attending the University of Florida at the time. Stills left, and moved to Los Angeles where he helped form a band called Buffalo Springfield, and later, partnered with David Crosby, Graham Nash and, sometimes, former band mate Neil Young. Does this ring a bell?

Meanwhile, Bernie Leaden replaced Stills in the Continentals. But, then, Leadon left for L.A. as well, where he met Don Henley and Glenn Frey and formed a band called… the Eagles. When the Eagles went looking to add a slide guitar player in 1974, they called Don Felder, who was back in Gainesville. Duane Allman had taught Felder how to play the slide.

Flier - Mudcrutch with Skynyrd

There was a seedy but fabulous rock and roll club named Dubs - a short drive north of town – out on 441. The house band in the mid-Seventies was called Mudcrutch – which originally included Tom Leadon – Bernie’s brother. Tom Leaden left the band, but, in the meantime, they had acquired a quirky, but talented singer-guitarist, and, when they, too, reconvened in L.A., they became Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

The area of Northeast Florida between Gainesville and Jacksonville was a Southern rock hotspot that spawned Blackfoot, Molly Hatchett, .38 Special, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and several members of the Allman Brothers.

By the time I arrived, a famous old blues musician had settled on the town’s outskirts. His real name was Ellas McDaniel. You might know him as… Bo Diddley.

Gainesville’s downtown music plaza is named after him.

During the time I was discovering all this, I remember another game of Categories. In this case, the categories were classic music artists and body parts. The winner was… Urethra Franklin.

Now, in case you weren’t aware… marijuana enhances your music listening experience. I guess it’s not surprising that the music scene in Gainesville was also the marijuana scene. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don’t know. But I found myself immersed in this amazing music culture – with weed being a common bond that brought us together.

Mudcrutch Poster That Mentions Sub Circus

 I remember going to a jam session in the upstairs loft of the Subterranean Circus – a well-known head shop and hippie hang-out. In the corner was this guy everyone called “Gainesville Bob.” He was homeless. He didn’t bathe or change his clothes, so the sight of him was a bit disturbing. He frequently lingered by the dumpster behind Leonardo’s Pizza – living on discarded crusts. But he kept to himself. He never begged or bothered anyone. He rarely spoke.

I wondered what he was doing in this gathering of musicians. And then someone handed him a little Casio keyboard, and he started playing. And he was good. Really good. It turns out his name was Robert Peterson. He had played in the Candymen – Roy Orbison’s backing band. Then he played in the McCoys – who are best known for their hit “Hang on Sloopy” – which went to number one in 1965. Their guitar player was Rick Derringer. Somewhere, somehow, Bob’s brain short-circuited. He ended up living on the streets of Gainesville. And I remember thinking, holy crap. What a town. Even the vagrants have talent!

Gainesville Bob (photographer unknown)

That was an important lesson for me though, and I still try to keep it in the back of my mind. Because we tend to put people into categories - sometimes without even realizing it. But all of us have a story – every one of us. Even those who are different… or don’t have a place to live. I admit, my natural inclination would have been to avoid Gainesville Bob. But someone invited him to the Sub Circus sessions. And I was glad they did.

The star of some of these jam sessions was a multi-talented, young kid with a funny hippie name. He was about 17 then, but he had charisma. You could see it. He could draw people in without even trying. His family had moved to a small ranch south of town, and he was making his way into the music scene. Eventually, he formed a band called Aleka’s Attic with his sister, Rain. They played at some of the small, alternative clubs. I still have some pictures somewhere. His name was River Phoenix.

Aleka's Attic in Gainesville (photographer unknown)

 After a few years, my marijuana use declined somewhat. I smoked daily, but not continuously. This was probably at least partly due to an exponential increase in alcohol consumption. I mean… it was Gainesville…

If there is a hell, there are a number of reasons it is likely to be my eventual destination, not the least of which is the winner I had in the game of Categories we played one night while walking back from the Sub Circus. We stuck with the excrement category, because… why wouldn’t you? But the other category was famous book titles. And my offering was… the Diarrhea of Anne Frank.

At some point, I went to dinner with several people at a Gainesville restaurant. The group included a friend of my roommate named Jack Mason. He played and sang in N’Dolphin and the Space Masons – two bands that are remembered fondly. For some reason, his parents were there. And I recall one of the usual, brief conversations when you meet someone and ask what they do for a living. Even though I was high, I could sense some discomfort from Jack’s father, but he said, “I’m a writer.” Over the years, I’ve seen that same discomfort many times – when “I’m a writer” meant “I like to write, but I do something else for a living.”

But, back then, I thought it was cool. I’m pretty sure my reaction was something like, “Right on, man.”

I think I kind of knew he had been an assault helicopter pilot in Vietnam, and was suffering from what we would now call PTSD, and had been working… delivering newspapers.

What I didn’t know was that he had been arrested a couple of years before that for attempting to smuggle a load of Columbian marijuana on a sailboat. And it turned out, he had been writing. While awaiting an appeal and sentencing, he found an agent. And that agent found a publisher. Several months after this dinner, in the summer of 1983, Robert Mason appeared on the Today Show. His book had received positive reviews. The week after his TV appearance, he reported to federal prison. His book – Chickenhawk – became a hardcover and paperback best-seller while he spent two years in jail.

After this dinner, there was a game of Categories. The categories were musical artists and bodily fluids. The winner was – Semen and Garfunkel.

Ten years passed. I lost contact with many people. I tried to fit myself into the proper category – as our culture demands. I had done what most people do – the things we are programmed to do… Graduated from college. Got a job that required a coat and tie. Got married. Bought cars. Bought houses.

I stopped getting high.

But, by the mid-90’s, I began to realize I had sold my soul in return for a stable life.

And I wanted my soul back.

By then, the Subterranean Circus had been plowed under to make room for a parking lot. In July of 1993, Robert Peterson - - Gainesville Bob - died when he was hit by a car while crossing a street late at night. And, in October that same year, River Phoenix died from a drug overdose in Los Angeles.

As I learned of these events, how could I not think of those old days – and the pleasant haze of my highness?

I didn’t know exactly how it had happened, but I knew I had followed a path that wasn’t right for me.

I wanted to be the person who thought it was perfectly reasonable when someone said they wanted to write a best seller, or be in a rock band. I wanted to have friends who didn’t think it was impractical or crazy if you wanted to do something creative. They’d just say, “Right on, man.”

I didn’t need bigger and better things. I didn’t really need things at all. Experiences were what kept me alive. Those were the things that stayed in my mind. Those will be the things I enjoy doing as long as I can, and will enjoy remembering as long as I’m able.

Of course, everything in my life had to come apart before I could rebuild it.

It took a while. I’m still in the rebuilding phase.

I may always be… rebuilding. There was one last game of Categories I recall from my highness. And I should add that the more we played the game, the more we narrowed the categories – to make it more difficult. In this case, the categories were bodily secretions and figure skaters. The winner – Peggy Phlegming (Fleming).

Beach Life

Beach Art and Novels: Driven to Create

I am trying to write a novel. The key word there is "trying." It's much more work than I thought it would be. It's mentally draining. It's frustrating. It's probably pointless. And the interesting thing is... it's not something I ever really wanted to do.

So... one might ask... why are you doing this? The answer, of course, is because I have to.

Maya Angelou once wrote, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." And so it is with me.

I have been writing on and off for many years. I seem to have a knack for it. Other people seem to enjoy what I write. I have been paid to write. I have done it for free. And I have done it just because I felt like it.

Then came The Idea.

I had never previously written fiction. Not once. Never even imagined myself as a fiction writer. When I found inspiration for some sort of long form writing, it was usually a historical narrative or maybe a travelogue. I actually like doing research, especially if it involves going somewhere.

But then came The Idea.

During a vacation in the Virgin Islands, I noticed there were vestiges of facilities that dated back to World War II. And I became curious. So I did a bit of research. Somehow, I combined that with thoughts I had from spending time in the Bahamas, injected some of my personal turmoil from the music business and the world of commercial radio, along with other details just to make things interesting, and it became... The Idea.

Phrases, plot details and character descriptions began boiling inside my head. I daydreamed them. I went to sleep with them. I woke up with them. I thought of them in the car, at the beach, in the grocery store, at the hairstylist, at the bar, and, yes, even in the men's room.

The Idea had become the dreaded untold story inside me. And I knew it had to come out.

I'm trying.

But I now realize that some people are driven to create. It just happens. Whether they want it to or not.

I've often wondered about this when I see beach art. I am absolutely fascinated by it, for some reason. Bear in mind, my beach is pretty far off the beaten path. I have seen beach art that was at least a mile walk from the nearest parking space, and well beyond areas that most people frequent.

In some cases, the beach art is simple, and, obviously, relies on items that are already there (in many instances, trash). But, in other cases, it clearly took time, and thought. We're not talking about your basic sand castles. And there is usually more to it than just a passing desire to throw a few seashells into a pattern.

Some of them are really interesting. Some are even a bit creepy (the skeleton/hanging thing is my favorite).

Is there hidden symbolism involved? Things that are meaningful only to the creator?

The Oxford Dictionary defines art as "the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power."

The implication is that artists make things so others may enjoy them. I'm not sure that's entirely true. At least, not for every artist.

Obviously, the beach artists know their efforts will be obliterated, sooner or later, by the wind or the sea or the passage of time. And, based on the relatively remote location, they aren't motivated by the hope that others will see and appreciate the results of their efforts.

They just... do it.

What is the internal force that drives them to create? Is this their untold story?

There is evidence that natural selection favors those with an innovative impulse - that thinking creatively might have been beneficial to pre-historic man when it came to finding ways to overcome the challenges presented by his environment.

But that doesn't really explain why he picked up bits of charcoal and pigments to scratch drawings on rocks and on the walls of caves he inhabited.

It's a curious thing - this urge to leave a part of ourselves somewhere, in some way, even if only temporarily. Clearly, there is something about the act of creating that is as important, or more important, than the creation itself.

Were the paintings in places like Altamira and Lascaux nothing more than ancient graffiti? The caveman equivalent of "Killroy Was Here?"

Is the creative impulse like an itch? If we don't scratch, it will drive us crazy. But if we do, it will go away for a while...?


When my novel was taking shape in my head, it almost drove me crazy. It has become an itch that has to be scratched. It's an untold story begging to be told, and, while I will certainly be pleased if others like the finished product, I think I'll be happy just to have it done.

Maybe the itch will go away for a while.

I guess I'll find out when I finish...

Some of us are drawn to the ocean...

Karaoke and Cover Bands

I'm a snob sometimes. At least about some things. I'm less of a beer snob than I once was. I've actually enjoyed Coors Light. Well... "enjoyed" may be too strong a word. I've tolerated Coors Light. On those rare occasions when having any beer was better than having no beer at all, I've cracked open a can and consumed every horrendous drop.

Of course, it had to be done in ninety seconds or less. Allowing it to warm up by more than a few degrees before you finish it reminds you that you are drinking something that, at room temperature, tastes like the runoff from a chicken coop.

I've mostly gotten over the beer snobbery, partly because there have been times when a "lesser" beer has been offered to me, and, beggars can't be choosers, right?

But I'm still a snob about karaoke and cover bands. I'm not a fan.

The problem with karaoke is that most people can't sing. In fact, many people shouldn't sing. EVER. Three cocktails doesn't make it better. Neither does five. If, when sober, your singing voice sounds like kittens being stabbed to death with a dull pencil, I can assure you, being drunk doesn't solve the problem.

People tell me that it's just a fun thing to do when you're out with friends. Get up and sing. And have fun living out a momentary fantasy of being a musician. Why is it that no one wants to live out a fantasy of being a mime?

Once, while sitting at the Stained Glass Pub in Silver Spring, Maryland, an acquaintance of mine who worked there saw me wincing at the sound of the weekly Wednesday karaoke in the room next door. After a few minutes, he walked over to me, appearing very serious. He looked left and right before he leaned to speak in my ear.

"Outside of the NSA and the CIA," he whispered, "I'm one of the very few who know that karaoke is long-term, covert payback for Hiroshima and Nagasaki."

I laughed hysterically.

For the most part, I dislike cover bands too. For those of you who don't know, a "cover band" is a group of musicians that performs songs written by other musicians. We've all seen the fifty-somethings who spend their Friday nights pretending they are Mick Jagger or Van Morrison.

I'll admit, there are some cover bands that have honed their technical skills to a fairly high level. And there are some who play cover gigs just to make a few bucks, meet chicks, and get free booze while working behind the scene to craft their own material. That's great. But most of them are just guys who dream about being Bono or Eric Clapton while scurrying to keep up with the orders in the Taco Bell drive-thru. Ok, maybe that was a bit harsh. Maybe.

The bottom line with karaoke and cover bands is that, in both cases, it's merely copying something that someone else has already done. And coming up with those ideas in the first place is the really hard part. Especially those ideas that are so catchy and memorable that others want to imitate them for decades afterward.

Part of my karaoke and cover band snobbery stems from a simple, long-time appreciation of great music. I was one of those that would buy a record and sit and listen to it from start to finish while reading the liner notes. I spent many thousands of hours listening and absorbing.

And some of my snobbery comes from the time I spent working in radio, concert promotion and artist management, particularly from the years that I spent booking local shows for so many aspiring young bands. Hundreds of them. And I listened to many hundreds more demos that were sent to me along the way. Some of them were really, truly good. And most of those bands will never get to play a venue bigger than a dark, smoky club. If they're lucky, maybe it will have a few lights and a decent PA system.

The music industry often ignores real talent in favor of something they can package and sell with ease. But that's an entirely different story. Just believe me, there are many gifted people making really good original music that most of us never hear.

The remaining portion of my karaoke and cover band snobbery comes from a life spent going to concerts - watching live music played by incredibly skilled and talented artists - both for personal reasons when I was younger and for professional reasons later on. When you've seen some really amazing performances, and heard songs done by the artists who wrote them and made them famous, it's hard to pretend anything less than that is really worth hearing.

The drunk lady sitting at the end of the bar can't cut it. Even with some nice, slick backing tracks. And the aging rock-star-wannabe doesn't cut it either. I have news for you. You're not Robert Plant. Not even close.

I thought of this the other day, when I was outside at the tiki bar of one of my favorite hang-outs. A cover band was playing, but I was sitting through it because I was chatting with a friend. We were having a long discussion about this very subject - karaoke and cover bands - when the band started playing "Walk This Way."

Continuing his effort to get me to admit that the band was decent, he said, "See? This is pretty good, right?"

I shook my head to let him know he was fighting a losing battle, and said, "Dude, I've seen Aerosmith do it."

Acid Logic

Note: I wrote this to read on stage at the Short Attention Span Storytelling Hour - a monthly event organized by the Writers of Central Florida or Thereabouts.


I’ve done drugs.

Not just once or twice. Lots of times. And lots of different ones.

Years ago, I tried various things – never any injectables, of course - but mostly found myself smoking pot. And we’re not talking about the Bill Clinton method of smoking pot. Oh no. I inhaled. Sometimes with great enthusiasm. Like a drowning man who’s suddenly bobbed to the surface.

The problem with pot was, for me, at least, it wasn’t a very social drug. I spent many thousands of hours high and listening to records. You know… vinyl LP’s. Sometimes with friends, but frequently by myself.

Did I benefit from it? I’d have to say yes. I currently work for a creative audio company writing and producing radio commercials and jingles. Before that, I worked in various roles in the radio and music businesses, and as a manager and consultant for rock bands. A substantial knowledge of rock, and an intuitive understanding of music structure – through years of exposure - certainly helped.

I eventually settled on alcohol as my drug of choice. As much as I was drawn to being in a marijuana-induced fog and listening to Pink Floyd, I was overtaken by other urges... like… the desire for female companionship. And alcohol was definitely better-suited to my social aspirations.

But there was a brief period of time - about a year - when I experimented with LSD. And, I think my life is better as a result.

Lysergic acid diethylamide – commonly called LSD – is a powerful hallucinogen. We called it acid. And taking acid was called “tripping.” Because it certainly was a journey.

Let me read part of an official description of its effects…

“Users experience radiant colors, objects and surfaces appearing to ripple or ‘breathe’, an altered sense of time, crawling geometric patterns overlaying walls and other objects, morphing objects, a sense that one's thoughts are spiraling into themselves, and loss of a sense of identity or ego.”

I have another way to describe it: temporary insanity.

There were times you weren’t sure you would ever come down. And other times you were simply incapable of thinking in linear fashion. There were just too many distractions. Some of them in the outside world. Some of them in your head.

I should also mention that, when we were tripping, we didn’t especially enjoy being around people who weren’t - unless we knew them well. We called them “real’ people – as in, “Oh man, we can’t go over there, there’s real people” - which just goes to show how disconnected from reality we could become.

But acid definitely produced moments of magic, no matter how unlikely they seemed.

Back when I was at the University of Florida, a friend and I drove to Orlando to see a concert at what was then the Tangerine Bowl. Incidentally, it was one of the better shows I’ve ever seen – Eric Burden and the Animals, the Fixx, and the Police. My friend was in a fraternity, and somehow we ended up with a car-full of sorority girls. I don’t recall how many.

The show was in October, just before Halloween. This is how I know… Because, when we got home, late at night, I saw that my friend, Chuck, was trying out his costume – a long, black robe, emblazoned with silver crescent moons and white stars… a tall, pointy, black hat… and a curved, gold shepherd’s staff. As we pulled up, he was standing… perfectly still… in the middle of this cone-shaped, yellow haze from the streetlight shining down in front of our house.

Bear in mind, this was back in the days before cell phones, and it was very late – probably three in the morning. And he would’ve had no idea when we’d be arriving. But… there he was.

I wondered what the heck was going on, and I began to suspect … that he was tripping.

As the cackling sorority girls started spilling out of the car, Chuck confirmed my suspicion when he came over to me and said, “Brian, I’m trippin’. Get these fucken’ people away from me.”

This episode demonstrates what I call “acid logic.” – because there’s no other suitable way to describe it. It’s something that makes no sense at all, normally, but, when you’re tripping, seems perfectly logical. Chuck had decided it would be a good idea to dress up - in a wizard suit - and stand - by himself - under a streetlight - in the middle of the night – just to see what it felt like.

Later, we figured out he’d probably spent two or three hours… just… standing there…

I enjoy it every time I picture that image. It’s a magic memory that will never leave me.

On another occasion, there was a roomful of us tripping at a friend’s house, and we were listening to an album by the progressive rock band “Yes” called “Close to the Edge.” A FANTASTIC album. Back in those days, in addition to the tone arm that held the needle as it moved across the record, many turntables had a pick-up arm that would shut it off when the album side finished playing. But if you didn’t put the pick-up arm in place, the album would repeat… pretty much… forever.

Now… if you’re not familiar with “Close to the Edge,” the title song takes up the entire first side. Somehow, someone put the album on, and we LOVED it! It’s great music for the acid-infused brain. But… whoever it was… forgot to push the pick-up arm into place. And, eventually, we realized we’d been listening to the same thing… for a LONG time.

Under normal circumstances, it’s hard enough to get five people in one room to agree on what music they want to hear. But… drop a little LSD into the mix, and it’s virtually impossible.

Each time Close to the Edge… got… close to the end, we’d begin a discussion about what album should be next. We all agreed we wanted to hear something that was just as good – which is difficult, because classic Yes is phenomenal.

We’d throw out some ideas… then lose our train of thought. The album would end. And then start over. Twenty-five minutes later…. Same thing.

I remember having several solid options. Thick as a Brick by Jethro Tull… Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by the Beatles… The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys by Traffic… All of them good choices, but, because we were tripping, we were simply unable to make such an important decision.

The album would end. And then start over. Twenty-five minutes later…. Same thing.

I’m not sure how many times in a row we listened to it, but, finally, I offered a solution. I said, “Let’s listen to something shitty so we won’t mind not hearing it again.“

That, ladies and gentlemen, is acid logic.

Let’s listen to something shitty so we won’t mind not hearing it again.

I have no idea if we ever chose another record. We spent half an hour laughing hysterically, and then quite some time after that trying to decide if what I had said was somehow profound… or just idiotic.

It made perfect sense to me at the time…

Those silly, but magical moments took on this significance in your memory – simply because they were so different – and so affected by the influence of this crazy chemical.

With acid, your mind worked in interesting ways. You could contemplate things… great and small… with equal fervor. Your mind could soar into beautiful places where you could visualize world peace, and be comforted by the harmony evident in all things natural.

Or, you could spend hours captivated by the texture of the carpet.

This pattern of going from the mundane to the monumental, and back, was particularly true for me, the one time I…. and this is a bit embarrassing… but… this was true the one time I had a bowel movement while I was tripping.

At first, I was horrified by the idea that my body could manufacture something so foul and frightening. My whole mood shifted to something that was completely contrary to the way I’d been feeling just before I wandered into the john. But, slowly, I began to see it as a process of creation. Proper. Pure. Almost… divine. I was amazed that my body had taken this… matter, and transformed it into this… other matter. And, knowing something about the laws of physics, I realized that this matter would exist forever, in one form or another. Possibly in some remote corner of the universe. And that it might grow and expand. I thought it MUST have cosmic significance.

But nobody seemed impressed when I went running out to tell them I was pretty sure I had just crapped a new galaxy.

Such is acid logic.

So, you might ask, how did I benefit from this madness? How is my life is better as a result?

First of all, although I have never and would never recommend LSD to anyone… we had a blast.

But, at this point, I should share another brief portion of an official description of its effects… Cuz this is fascinating…

“The drug sometimes leads to disintegration or restructuring of the user's historical personality, and creates a mental state that some users report allows them to have more choice regarding the nature of their own personality.”

That’s wild, right?

There’s a period of time after you trip – a day or two – when you’re trying to piece together who you were before. And there is this opportunity – if you embrace it - to at least think about becoming more like the person you want to be, rather than the person you are.

It’s possible that therein lies the reason some people have bad experiences with the drug, because, during that period of self-analysis, they discover that they are - in fact - assholes.

But I believe I learned to be open to new ways of thinking. To realize, that, in many cases, there is no absolute right or wrong. There just… IS.

 I learned that it’s important to maintain some perspective. When you can contemplate things – great and small – you realize that, while our existence is important to us, and, possibly, a few people around us, we really are just a tiny speck on a pebble spinning through the heavens. So we shouldn’t take ourselves too seriously.

I learned to try to enjoy the moment – every moment - as difficult as that sometimes seems. Because we really, truly never know for sure if it will be our last.

I learned that I have strengths. And I became willing to admit I have weakness.

I learned that I can be profound. And idiotic. Sometimes… simultaneously.

And, I thought a lot about love. True love. How lucky we are to have it within us to give. And to experience it, when given to us by others. Because it’s… amazing.

I had a breakthrough when I stopped trying to understand it. Because, what IS love, if not acid logic? Sometimes it makes no sense at all… But it’s magic when it happens.

Irrational Fears

As I am discussing with a friend the inevitable beach excursion that will occur at some point this weekend, the subject of sharks arises. Some people are so afraid of sharks that they won't even venture into the ocean. Others go in, but are too apprehensive and fearful to really enjoy themselves.

I think about sharks when I am in the ocean - which is often. I am in no way inclined to be reckless or oblivious, but, ultimately, the dread of shark attacks is one of those irrational fears that we need to put aside to really enjoy our time in the water.

I thought of this not long ago when, while on one of my many long strolls down the beach, I was stopped by a New Jersey man who looked truly miserable. He had deep red streaks on his shoulders, outlining what would have been the edge of the wifebeater he had apparently worn the day before - evidence that he was not a dilligent sunscreener - and he was engaged in some serious hand-wringing. Why he chose me, of all people, I have no idea. But I was the lucky one.

He looked around as if he wanted to be sure others could not hear. I was suddenly afraid I was about to be burdened with some great secret he had resisted sharing for years - the nuclear launch codes for an isolated missile silo in North Dakota where he had been stationed in the 70's - or some such thing.

But, after finally ascertaining that no passers-by were in range, he tipped his head to indicate the surf rolling toward us as the subject of his concern, and asked, "Are there... are there sharks in there?"

Now, for those of you who don't know me, I am not one who takes great pleasure in making people feel stupid, at least not without provocation, but it was all I could do to keep from laughing in his face.

My reply was as logical and serious as I could make it, given the circumstances.  "Umm... it's the ocean.  There are sharks everywhere."

His reaction told me that my answer was probably the one he had expected, but not the one he had hoped for, as if I were a doctor giving him test results that confirmed a tragic preliminary diagnosis.

Sensing blood, I moved in for the kill.

"Every time you go in the ocean, there is at least one but probably several sharks that know you are there.  They have a truly remarkable sense of smell, and can detect movement hundreds of yards away."

He looked at me and then at the ocean. Then he looked at me and back at the ocean again. And I seriously thought I was going to have to find him some tissues. Here was a man who was sizzling hot and uncomfortably sunburned, and who wanted nothing more than reassurance that he could swim without being maimed, and it was just his luck that he decided to ask me.

At this point, I realized I had passed beyond the world of sadistic playfulness and into the realm of downright cruelty. What I said was, of course, true, but I decided to add some calming details to the discussion.

"Think how many times people have been in the ocean and sharks were there. Some of those people may have known there were sharks around, but probably most of them didn't. Either way, nothing at all happens almost all the time."

I could tell he was trying to digest this logic, but those irrational fears gnawed at him like a school of starving sharks.

Finally, I said, "Look at it this way, statistically-speaking, your drive to the beach was far more dangerous than swimming in the ocean. And you probably weren't too worried in your car."

To this, he nodded in acknowledgment.

Looking for one last morsel of rationality, he asked, "Do you swim here?"

I have to admit, there is some small, twisted, diabolical part of me that wanted to say, "No. Are you kidding? This place is loaded with sharks."

But I looked at the strips of his otherwise pale skin that were now crimson, and saw the perspiration gathering on his forehead and pouring down his face. If ever there was a man badly in need of a refreshing dip in the ocean, this was him.

With a sincere smile on my face, and with the most pleasant, Mister Rogers tone of voice I could manage, I replied, "All the time."

We chatted a bit longer, and, despite his irrational fears, he turned out to be quite pleasant and interesting. Finally, I walked on. And he waded into the waves. As far as I know, he emerged a short while later, considerably cooler, and with all his limbs intact.

When the topic of shark attacks came up this morning, I decided to check it out. I found one source, on a website called vagabondish.com, in which the writer decided to compare what he called "rather bizarre ways to die" in an attempt to confirm that the idea of any given person becoming shark food was really not something with which we should be overly concerned. While the shark attack numbers are global, he found some figures for the United States in 2003 that showed the following:

Cause of Death                                           Total #       
Shark Attack                                                4  (57 total attacks)
Contact with Hot Tap Water                         26
Lightning                                                     47
Contact with hornets, wasps, bees               66

Assuming this information is correct, a human is much more likely to die from contact with hot tap water or an encounter with a stinging insect than from a shark attack. And I found some other figures from 2003 that told me my New Jersey man was better off taking a swim than suffering in the heat. As it turned out, 273 people died that year from excessive exposure to the sun or high temperatures. Also, I was right when I told him his trip to the beach was much more perilous - 44,757 people died in car accidents in 2003.

Of course, none of those other causes of death have rows of ridiculously sharp teeth or a reputation as a relentless predator that can chew you up and then swim away with a belch and a smile. Ok, I don't really know if sharks can belch. Or smile. But you know what I mean.

When you Google shark images, you have to go pages and pages before you find anything besides pictures of gigantic, menacing sharks terrorizing every creature that comes within reach. But sharks are really just amazing, efficient survivors who are probably in need of a good public relations firm.

According to the fossil record, sharks have been around for about 420 million years, which means they pre-date the dinosaurs. And, needless to say, they are still around long after dinosaurs went... well... the way of the dinosaur. Despite what we think, they are not gluttonous carnivores. They eat only about 5% of their body weight every 40 to 80 hours. According to the website sharks.org, if humans ate like sharks, you would only have one meal every two or three days.

The New Jersey man was probably right in one regard, shark attacks are more likely to happen in Florida than in any other place on the globe. For the sake of consistency, let's look at 2003.  According to the International Shark Attack File maintained by the Museum of Natural History at the University of Florida, there were 57 shark attacks worldwide (only four of them fatal), but 30 of them were in Florida.

While this might seem alarming, there is an obvious relationship between the location and the number of human encounters with sharks. Here is where I would like to point out the difference between those in academia and people like me. The official, scientific explanation is a "high rate of aquatic recreational utilization." Whereas I would call it "a lot of freakin' people in the water." Sharks and humans are in the same place at the same time in Florida more than just about anywhere else.

I would like to note that, during my internet research, I frequently ran across numbers of shark attacks listed as "unprovoked." Although I saw no statistics on "provoked" shark attacks, there is certainly the implication that at least some of the victims deserved it. But I'll leave that story for another time.

For now, as I return to the conversation with my friend about our plans for the weekend, I think we may scrap the idea of going to the beach. I'd love to catch some waves, but, after reading this, I am afraid to drive.