Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Late night rambling part deux!

Insomnia is a real bitch. Sometimes sleep is a luxury you just can't afford.

I've been thinking, of a little place down by the lake, they got a dirty old road leading up to the house, I wonder how long it will take...

I have no business posting anything when I'm this FUBAR but I don't give a damn anymore. It's not like anyone is reading this drivel anyway. Fuck it. I can't sleep and I'm too fucked up to do anything constructive so this is what I'm going to do.

Projectile vomit with a toothache beats my broke ass down, hands tied behind my back I could eat that clown, with a knife and fork just go to town. Fuck your entire existence, you have no strength for more than token resistance.

Pass the marijuana, any old kind of way. I like it when you pass around the pipe, make sure the mood is right....

Hey honey, take a walk on the wild side!

It's time for another installment of Late Night Rambling.

Brought to you by Sunny Brook whiskey, Vicodin, and Marijuana!

The NEW breakfast of champions!

For when you just want to push the "pause" button.

I don't give a fuck what you think, I'm not writing this for anyone but me! I hope no one ever reads it because you are not worthy.

There's something almost indescribably "magic" about the Bay Area of the west coast of California. I say almost indescribably because Satan knows enough people have tried to put it into words, much wiser heads than mine. Kerouac, Kesey, Ginsberg, Leary, Wavy Gravy, just to name a few. HST came closer than anyone to date, but even the good doctor never put it into laymans terms. Perhaps it can't be done. Is it some kind of strange hippie haven, a misfit Mecca of sorts? Did the "Summer of love" cause some kind of vortex that continues to draw in the eccentric? Call it what you want, it is undeniably, indisputably, the freak kingdom Hunter said it was. But why?

Why here, and not someplace warmer? Even those amongst the best and the brightest who don't reside in this particular region have some inextricable connection. The influence of Nor Cal is worldwide. Fuck fake ass Hollywood and their phony bullshit, the real culture is right here! NYC is a close second, but still no substitute!

As far as I can tell, it started with the great California gold rush back in 1848 or so. The miners needed bars, casinos, whores, and opium dens, and so the first remnants of counterculture for the area were imported from all over the world. After the gold began to become scarce, new sources of revenue were needed.

"In 1930, California had 5.7 million residents, and the population shrank as 120,000 Mexicans were repatriated. In the 1930s, farmers from the Midwestern Dust Bowl states, especially Oklahoma and Arkansas, began to move to California; 250,000 arrived by 1940, including a third who moved into the San Joaquin Valley, which had a 1930 population of 540,000. During the 1930s, some 2.5 million people left the Plains states.

The Modesto Bee on September 30, 2008 reviewed Dust Bowl migration to California. A series of wet years in the 1920s led farmers to believe that the Plains could sustain annual plowing to produce wheat. Drought in the 1930s allowed dust storms to carry away top soil, darkening the sky even at mid-day.

As families realized that the drought and dust storms would not end, some sold what they could not take and began to drive west on Route 66. Many hoped to become hired hands on California farms, learning how to grow fruits and vegetables while living on the farms where they worked. However, California farms typically hired seasonal workers only when they were needed, and used farm workers to perform specific tasks rather than learn how to become farmers in their own right.

The experiences of Okies and Arkies were memorialized in John Steinbeck's 1939 novel, "The Grapes of Wrath." It told the story of the fictional Joad family's migration from the Oklahoma Dust Bowl to California, which was considered the Promised Land. Dorthea Lange's 1936 Migrant Mother photo (, taken at a pea-pickers' labor camp in San Luis Obispo county, is often used to symbolize the plight of the Midwestern migrants in California."


Thanks to the dust bowl, the central valley became a farmer's dream, westward expansion kept the population steadily increasing and to this very day there's no end in sight. Move ahead a few years and you find the beginnings of what would later be called the Beat generation. Yes, it started in New York, but like all good things it made it's way to the west coast, improved, and stayed right here.

"The sun may rise in the east, at least it's settled in a final location."

The Beats begat the Hippies and Flower Children, and later the Punks, and from all that is everything counterculture is today. I live in the coolest place in the world, bar none.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Contact Info


Robert J. Day
278 Fenner Rd.
Jackson, GA 30233

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

At Last it's Finally Over!

I hear Canada is real nice this time of year...


“In a nation run by swine, all pigs are upward-mobile and the rest of us are fucked until we can put our acts together: Not necessarily to win, but mainly to keep from losing completely.”

- Dr. Hunter Stockton Thompson



Like anyone who isn't suffering from severe mental retardation, which is a little better than half of us if you believe the numbers, I'm glad Obama won. That being said, I've never been more disgusted or ashamed to be an American.

I'm serious.

What the fuck California? I thought we were going to open the political door to a whole new way of thinking, lead the nation in tolerance, understanding, kindness, and open-mindedness. But I was wrong. Oh boy, was I ever wrong. It's worse than I could have imagined in a thousand nightmares. I guess Matt Taibbi was right, the douchebag.

"Americans no longer have the energy to do anything but lie back and allow themselves to be jacked off by the calculating thieves who run this grasping consumer paradise we call a nation."-MT

Monday, September 29, 2008

A bit of poetry...(Not Mine, I try not to do that to you)

I heard this on the XM radio on the way to Burning Ham and loved it.

What We Might Be, What We Are

If you were a scoop of vanilla
And I were the cone where you sat,
If you were a slowly pitched baseball
And I were the swing of a bat,

If you were a shiny new fishhook
And I were a bucket of worms,
If we were a pin and a pincushion,
We might be on intimate terms.

If you were a plate of spaghetti
And I were your piping-hot sauce,
We'd not even need to write letters
To put our affection across.

But you're just a piece of red ribbon
In the beard of a Balinese goat
And I'm a New Jersey mosquito.
I guess we'll stay slightly remote.
-- X. J. Kennedy

New Short Story

Mr. Hyde is a real nice guy!
By: Robert J. Day Copyright 2008 Robert J. Day

"I think there's a whole region of images and feelings inside us that rarely are given outlet in daily life. And when they do come out they can take perverse forms. It's the dark side. Everyone, when he sees it, recognizes the same thing in himself. It's a recognition of forces that rarely see the light of day." - Jim Morrison

"Here's your breakfast dear" the man’s wife said cheerfully. He took his eyes off the morrning paper long enough to glance down at the plate she'd place in front of him. Bacon and eggs. Every goddamned morning, it was the same fucking thing. Bacon and eggs. Jesus fucking Christ, couldn't the stupid bitch fix something different once in a while? "Thank you darling" he said, giving her his best smile. "Would you like some toast, or a glass of orange juice?" What I would like is for you to just once surprise me with some French toast or waffles, you fat, lazy cunt. "No thank you sweetheart, this will do just fine."
He finished his bacon and eggs without tasting them, rinsed his plate, silverware, and coffee mug, and then put them in the dishwasher like the well-trained dog he was. "I've got to be getting to the office now honey, I'll see you tonight." He gave her the obligatory kiss on the cheek, and managed not to grimace in disgust, then grabbed his briefcase and overcoat from the hall closet and headed out the door.
As she watched him leave, the woman thought to herself, as she often did, that she was extremely lucky to be married to such a wonderful man. He was just such a nice guy...
I wouldn't give a shit if I never saw that ugly bitch again, the man thought to himself as he rode the elevator down to the lobby. "Good morning Mack!" he said to doorman as he stepped out of the elevator. You worthless sack of shit. "Good morning to you sir! How bout those Giants? Gonna go all the way this year I'm thinkin." Who gives a flying fuck what you think you goddamned old drunk? Fucking dumbass mick. "You betcha Mack, take it easy, don't work to hard okay?" Like you ever have. "I won't, you have a good day sir!" replied the doorman.
Ernie "Mack" MacDougal smiled as the man stepped out into the street. Nice guy that one. Helluva nice guy.
"Where to mister?" the cabbie asked as the man got in, placing his briefcase on the seat beside him. Back to India or Saudi Arabia or wherever the hell you came from raghead, thought the man. "21st and 6th please" he said politely. The cab driver nodded as he reached over and switched on the radio. Immediately the cab was filled with the most awful noise the man had ever heard. What the fuck is this shit? the man wondered. How can he stand it? I suppose this crap is what passes for music in your country Habib, but you're in America now, you asshole. Jesus fucking Christ.
He tried going over some reports during the ride to his office, but the horrible sounds that continually blasted forth from the cabbies speakers ruined any hope of being able to concentrate.
The man thought about what it would be like to reach forward and stick his expensive pen (a Christmas gift from his wife) into the side of Ali Baba's neck again and again. He imagined that his surprised screams of pain and anguish would probably sound quite a bit like the utterances of the dickhead who was currently singing that goddamn foreign gibberish shit on the radio. His head was pounding by the time the taxi rolled to a stop in front of the soulless glass and steel tower that housed the offices of his company, and countless others exactly like it.
In spite of his headache, he gave the raghead a five dollar tip and a cheerful, "thanks a lot sir!" wondering as he handed over the money if he was helping to fund terrorism. What a nice guy, thought the cabbie as he drove away.
On his way to the elevator, the man spotted Artie Jenkins from accounting. Please don't let that schmuck get on this elevator he thought, I can't stand that whiney little son of a bitch. Artie stepped into the elevator just before the door was closing. "Hey, glad I caught you!" Artie exclaimed. He then began a rambling narrative that had something to do with his wife's sister, the man wasn't sure, Artie's voice was so high and whiney he was never really sure just what the hell Artie was talking about, it was hard to think with that shrill voice ringing in his ears. He tried to nod in the right places, occasionally throwing in a "really?" or a "you don't say?" when he thought it might be appropriate, but his headache was getting worse.
At last he reached his floor, just as he was seriously contemplating choking Artie to death with his cheap necktie. "Take it easy" he said to Artie, who was already moving on to his next victim. "Super nice guy!" said Artie to the bored-looking advertising executive next to him, pointing to the man's back as he stepped out of the elevator. "Seriously, just an all around good guy!"
"Good morning Karen." Karen was the man's secretary. She liked to flirt shamelessly with him but he knew if he tried to go anywhere with it she'd sue him for sexual harassment so fast it would make his head spin. "Morning handsome, you're looking sharp as usual. Anything I can do for you?" Bend over your desk and hike up that skirt you cockteasing whore, and put your fist in your mouth to muffle the screams because I'm going to wear that pretty little ass out. "Just the usual coffee, thanks." And your tits. Your firm, perky tits all over my face. He watched her pour the coffee, bending way too far over to put back the pot, causing her already short skirt to rise up and give him a nice look at the cheeks of her ass. "How is it?" she asked, after he'd taken a sip. A little too sweet, not unlike your wet cunt my dear. "Just right, thank you Karen."
What's with this guy? thought Karen. She'd been practically throwing herself at him for as long as she'd been his secretary and he was always a perfect gentleman. He was just too nice. "Mr. Sondenfield would like to see you when you get a moment." she said.
Barry Sondenfield was supposedly his boss, despite of the fact that he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground and when he bothered to show up at the office at all he generally drank his lunch. What the fuck does that incompetent moron want from me now? thought the man. How long am I going to have to do both our jobs? When will my poor head stop hurting?
"Outsourced? I'm afraid I don't understand Mr. Sondenfield, how could this have happened?" And why the fuck am I only just now being told about it, you nasty old piece of drunken dogshit? "Times are tough..." said drunken dogshit with a nervous grin, "the company is making cutbacks and laying off all over the place. Hell, I was lucky to get promoted just before the shit hit the fan or else I'd be in the same boat as you. Unfortunately, one of the conditions for my new promotion was that I'd have to be the one to break the bad news to everybody. Don't shoot the messenger buddy, ha, ha."
He continued to speak, but the man was no longer really listening, his anger wouldn't let him concentrate and his headache was so bad he thought his head might explode. That fucking rat bastard sold me out. Really fucking screwed me good. Now who was going to be around to fix his fuckups, the retarded son of a bitch. He could have easily put in a good word for me and had them find me a spot somewhere. What the fuck was he supposed to do; he had a stack of unpaid bills and next to nothing in the bank. With the job market the way it was, it could be six months or more before he found another job, shit maybe even a year.
Drunken Dogshit was saying something about how he really appreciated all the hard work, but the man's head was throbbing so hard he was seeing black spots, and his hearing seemed to be fading in and out. Something Sondenfield said earlier had stuck with him, and kept repeating over and over in his brain. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger...
"And of course I'm more than happy to write you a letter of recommendation." Sondenfields speech had come to an end it seemed. "Thank you very much sir." said the man, rising from his chair and walking toward the door. "If you wouldn't mind doing that now, I've just got to grab something from my desk and I'll be right back."
Without waiting for a reply he left Drunken Dogshit's spacious corner office and walked down the hall towards his own modest little cubicle. Shoot the messenger? Oh no, he had something much better in mind. Reaching his desk, he opened the bottom drawer and took out the 9mm automatic and the extra clip he'd been keeping in there for several months without really knowing why. Or perhaps he'd known all along. He released the safety just as Karen came walking in. "What are you doing with that?" she asked, looking completely unafraid. "Shut the fuck up bitch." he said, and shot her in the face at pointblank range.
The man shot and killed thirteen and seriously wounded six of his colleagues and co-workers that day before he was killed by police gunfire. Among the dead was Artie Jenkins from accounting, his boss Barry Sondenfield, and of course Karen Leary his secretary. The story made headlines across the country, and everyone interviewed by the media said the same thing, surviving co-workers, college friends, the taxi driver who'd brought him to work that day, family members, even his grieving widow.
"It makes no sense, I just don't understand, he was such a nice guy."

The End?

Monday, September 22, 2008

Check it out!

An article I wrote for the Black Rock Beacon's website after Burning Man 2007 has finally been put up on the site! I stumbled across it accidentally and was pleasantly surprised!

Saturday, September 20, 2008

A Christmas story (outline of yet another work in progress.)

I think I may actually finish this one though, I like it a lot...
Copyright 2008 Robert J. Day [Don't plagiarize me, bro!]

A Christmas story.

There’s these two tweakers, a relatively happy couple despite their horrendous meth addiction, which isn’t immediately apparent in the story’s opening. The story begins with the happy couple (Tim and Debbie) about to embark on a shopping trip. They’ve been really “good” for two whole weeks and if they put off paying the electric bill, (they’ve paid late before and not been shut off, they’ll just have to pay the late fee again is all) they’ll have the princely sum of ?200$ to purchase Xmas gifts for their three kids, one of whom is named destiny, the other two’s names mean something like paternal love and responsibility??
Their hearts full of love and Christmas cheer, they set off for the local Wally World to make the holiday dreams of their children come true, and why not?? They’re good kids, they deserve better than just the one or two cheap dollar store presents they got from Toys for Tots last year because Debbie had to bail Tim out of jail and there just wasn’t any money for presents, or even a tree.. Shit, Debbie had to give a couple blowjobs just to get the last few dollars for the bail money, and when the newly-released Tim learned his old lady had no beer money and only a little dope, he sent her back out on the streets with a black eye to suck her way to his next high. On Christmas.
Debbie didn’t mind, not really. She loved him. Besides, he was different now. He’d been making good money the past few months stealing copper from construction sites for recycling, so they’d had plenty of crystal and sometimes Tim would bring home a half gallon of milk for the kids with his case of beer. And Tim felt so bad about last Christmas, he’d insisted they clean up for two weeks so they’d have money for the kids.
Cleaning up meant only pot for her and no meth, for him it meant he’d only do his friends dope at “work” and not buy any himself. But it was the tree that made Debbie believe that Tim had really changed for the better this time. Just this evening, Tim had come in with a barely used, fake Christmas tree, the kind with the lights and the the ornaments already on it. It was at this very moment set up in the living room, next to the TV, flashing and blinking, it was in fact “lit up like a Christmas tree” and Debbie thought it was the most beautiful Christmas tree she’d ever seen. To anyone else it might not have been anything special, but to Debbie it represented everything good and normal that a family is supposed to be and so it was the best tree EVER.
They wait until the kids are asleep, and leaving them in the care of their friend Dinky, they head to Wal-Mart. As they’re getting into the car (Pinto or Station Wagon??) They run into hambone, one of several dealers in their apartment complex. Hambone sells meth, and Tim and Debbie were important clients of his until about two weeks ago. He wants to know where they been, he was starting to get worried about them, etc. Well, it’s good to see them anyway, and hey by the way, he’s got some killer shit, did they need anything?? No thanks, they say we’re fine. Are they sure, this is REALLY good shit, and just because they were friends, he’d give them a great deal. Well, maybe just a little to perk them up for their shopping trip they say, they can afford to spend a little of the money, it IS their money after all, and there’ll still be plenty left for presents. Sure what the hell they say, “Give us a 20.”
But of course Hambone can’t do a 20, his shits already been pre-weighed and packaged and he doesn’t have any sacks that small. He says he’ll give them a 50 sack for forty, cause it’s them. They don’t need that much, but Tim says he can always sell the rest to the guys from “work” and since they needed to save a few dollars for Christmas dinner anyway, it was just like money in the bank.
They score the shit and go to a nearby park to get high. They’re sitting on the swings passing the glass dick back and forth when Carol shows up. Carol is a fellow tweaker who used to live in their complex until she was evicted. Now she divides her time between the local shelter and this park. Tim and Debbie are feeling exceptionally giving this evening and invite carol to join them, which she gladly does.
Hambone was right, the shit is killer, and the three of them are soon VERY spun-out, the first bowl led to bowls two and three, as it often does , and a couple of hours pass by almost unnoticed, as they often will. “Shit, we gotta go!”
Carol switches the dope sack with a sack of cut, and Tim sells cut to the wrong guy (Stevie) on the way into the store, they shop like they’ve never shopped before.
Stevie is waiting in the parking lot, and he isn't happy. He says they sold him a bag of fake shit. Tim says no man, that shit was really good, come to the park with us and we'll try it out.
At the park Stevie beats up and robs Tim, taking everything, and then he proceeds to rape Debbie in the park, as Carol watches from the bushes where she’s been hiding. Tim is beaten so bad he's barely conscious and can do nothing but watch helplessly.
They return home with nothing, and when the kids wake up asking if Santa Claus came, Tim beats them out of shame and frustration, and after catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, is sickened by what he sees staring back at him.
Not knowing what else to do, he dropkicks the fake tree across the living room in disgust. Destiny sees it fly across the room, and it is the ugliest thing she’s ever seen, to anyone else it might just look like a flying xmas tree but to her it represents everything ugly, vile, depraved, and evil that her family has always been and so it is the worst tree EVER.
The story ends with the lights going out, it seems they had gotten away with paying their bill late for the last time. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
Definitely NOT The End.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Playa Time VS. The Best of Intentions

It never fails...

You make plans, buy stuff, make more plans, maybe make a few promises...

You fully intend to do all those things you said you'd do, meet those people you've been wanting to meet, and who wanted to meet you, but the second your feet touch down on the Playa, everything flies right out the window.

It goes slowly at first, but by the end of the week it's out of your control. Playa time. When "I'll be there in an hour" turns into "See you next year!" and you have no idea how that could have happened. I have as good an excuse as anyone I guess, I was working for the Gate department most of the time. Partying my ass off and having the time of my life, but working nontheless.

Even when I wasn't working at the Gate I would often find myself there, or in the vortex appropriately named The Black Hole, and even though I missed a fuckton of cool shit, I was right where I needed to be usually. Fuck what you heard, the real party is the one behind the scenes, primarily before and after the actual event.

So while I am truly sorry I didn't get to meet anyone I was so looking forward to meeting, I'm not THAT fucking sorry, because in the end it was you who really missed out, and not me. If that sounds a little conceited, I don't mean for it to, because it's not really about me or any one person in particular, although I did meet some of the truly great ones. It's the combination of all the eclectic and unique individuals and our common goal that makes The Pirates so goddamn special. If you see the pirate ship coming get the fuck out of the way, because we WILL run your hippie ass over!

But that's not what this blog entry is about, oh no. More on the Pirates later perhaps but for now I'd like to take a moment to try and convince my other Burner friends that I am not completely full of shit. A tall order perhaps but I believe I'm up for it, mainly because I've got the truth on my side. I arrived on Playa the Thursday before the start of the event and with all my plans, hopes, and dreams still very much intact. The next day after helping erect a giant bottle of Ketchup I worked my first shift at the Gate and became violently ill.

I had Gate Fever, a nasty ailment whose symptoms include but are in no way limited to: Euphoria, right-on'ness, a sense of accomlishment and belonging, and mass alcohol consumption with no intoxication, which can lead to workaholism. I lost an uncle to workaholism, and it wasn't pretty, there were pie charts, graphs, and alphabetically filed receipts everywhere man.

There is no cure for Gate Fever, and once infected it will almost certainly kill you. I guess it's not such a bad way to go...

To Be Continued...

Friday, September 12, 2008

It's been awhile...

Since the last time I posted anything here. I've always hated blogging, and while I know keeping a writer's journal can be beneficial, I've never been real good at keeping up with one of those either. It's hard enough to just write something everyday, much less having to post it on the web for all to see.

My apologies to any and all of my internet friends with whom I promised to meet up with at Burning Man this year. I was busy pillaging with the Pirates of the Gonnorhean, AKA Gate, Perimeter, and sometimes Exodus staff.

When I wasn't working for or partying with the Gate family, I was working for or partying with the Ketchup family, my friends and Playa neighbors. Much love goes out to Mr. Bruce Bender and Kat, and the whole Krazy Ketchup Krew! Only you could have kept me away from Doc Pyro's Meet and Greet!

Stay tuned for the garbled details of my many misadventures in the desert!

To Be Continued...

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Daily Blog #666 "George Carlin is worm food!"

I would tell you what he meant to this world, but you just wouldn't fucking understand! George was one of a kind and you are all sheep! Fuck You! Bunch of fucking pussies!

Sunday, June 15, 2008

DB#12ish I haven't a clue...

I simply must stop getting obliterated and then posting on the message boards. Better I should drunk-dial an old girlfriend, at least she already knows I'm a Jackass! My writing has done a great deal for my personal life, most of it good, but no good can come from spouting off nonsense into cyberspace at four in the morning, looking at the computer screen through one bloodshot eye... Sure, it seemed hilarious at the time, but in the sober light of day I realize that for a man of few words, I really have no idea when it would be better for me to just shut my fucking trap, and when I should keep talking. Don't drink and post, and NEVER drug and blog!

DB# Eleventy-seven! I have a confession to make...

I've recently started kidnapping homeless drifters by luring them into my house with the promise of a shower and a hot meal, and then I keep them locked in my basement! On Saturday nights, for kicks, I hold them at gunpoint and force them to act out scenes from my favorite sitcoms of yesteryear! If you thought Full House was mildly amusing back in the nineties, just imagine if it had starred a bunch of half-starved winos begging you to spare their lives!


Saturday, May 31, 2008

DB#12 This one time, at Burning Man. Reposted from Eplaya.

Last year was my first Burn, and my reasons for being there had nothing to do with getting laid. Nevertheless, after three or four days of walking around seeing some of the most beautiful women I had ever seen (We had some in our camp even!) some of whom were wearing only shoes and a smile, I was feeling a bit randy, to say the least. All you men know what I'm talkng about, those Playa Princesses that you still think about on an almost daily basis. I decided to go out that night and see if I couldn't do something to remedy the situation.


I started this little adventure at the Root Society Dome, well I guess technically I started it at Thunderdome right before that, when I spoke briefly to an Aussie Angel with an accent and perfume that drove me crazy immediately. Alas, that was not to be, she was with a group of friends who decided they wanted to leave almost immediately so with barely even a "G'day" she was out of my life forever. That's when I headed over to the Root Society, I hoped to meet some girls on the dancefloor and indeed I did, I danced for about five hours and in that time I "met" three women. I put met in quotes because it was so loud in the dome I have no way of knowing if they understood a word I said. It went something like this; I would be dancing (or what passes for dancing in my case) I'd spot a girl who seemed to be alone and try to catch her eye. If she gave me a smile I'd work my way across the floor and proceed to dance with her. The first couple of times I made the mistake of trying to start a conversation.

Me: "HI!"

Her: "Hey!"


Her: "WHAT??"

Me, louder: "WHAT'S YOUR NAME???"

Her, louder: "WHAT?"



The third girl I didn't even try to speak to, I just motioned that it was really loud by covering my ears and then pointed outside. She nodded and we walked outside where we promptly ran into her boyfriend, who'd apparently been looking for her at another camp. After introductions were made he told her that the party was way better at the other place and invited me to go with them. I said no of course, but did manage not to slug the guy as he and his incredibly hot girlfriend were hugging me goodbye. (That last part was a joke, they were very nice people really!) Anyways I'd had enough for one night, so I returned to my camp, to my enormous canvas tent in which I slept alone.


The next night I decided to ride a few art cars in hopes of meeting someone in an environment where I could actually hear something besides bass and possibly get myself laid, but the only thing I got was VERY, VERY, DRUNK. Damn those Bar Cars, I love them! I didn't meet any single straight women until I was three sheets to the wind with the fourth sheet fast approaching. Finally I met a beautiful girl, and guess what? I actually REALLY liked her, she was smart and funny as well as beautiful! But I'm getting a little ahead of myself. A few minutes prior to meeting her, the art car I was riding nearly hit a darkwad and our driver, who was almost as shitfaced as I was, was forced to slam on the brakes rather hard, jostling everyone on board. Unknowingly, and not a little drunkenly, I spilled the entire contents of my cup right into my lap. A few minutes later, having at long last jumped ship and once more afoot, I met the abovementioned beautiful, smart, and funny girl. We were talking about our Burn experiences so far and flirting, and I was actually scoring a few points, despite my state of total inebriation, when for seemingly no reason at all she turns and walks quickly away. I'm wondering if it's something I said or if, like Lewis Carroll's white rabbit, she was just really late for something. It's then that I notice the wet patch on the front of my jeans, clearly visible and far too perfectly round to be anything but what she thought it was. That poor girl will always believe she was being hit on by a sloppy drunk who'd recently pissed himself! I wanted to chase after her and explain but I knew there was no way she was going to buy my ridiculous story which just happened to be the truth.


Feeling rejected and oddly humiliated (I didn't do anything damnit!) I headed back across the Playa in the direction of camp. I decided that "Bernie" had a better chance of getting laid than I did. But things like rejection and humiliation can't survive in the desert, and before I made it back to my camp my pants had dried and I found a really good party at the gay camp near home. (5&G)


What happened was I met a cool straight girl, and while she was not the most beautiful or even the funniest or smartest, she did take pity on me and drag my drunk behind to her tent and have her way with me, after which she promptly showed me the door. That's how I knew it was pity and not lust! In fact I think I may have been the recipient of one of those "gift fucks" someone mentioned before! I didn't mind being used in the slightest!


The morale of the story is this: If you're looking for it you're probably just setting yourself up for diappointment, but in BRC good things will almost always happen when you least expect it!

Friday, May 30, 2008

DB #'s 6-11! One Lonestoner deserves another, or Fuck you, I know what I said!

It's been several days since my last blog entry so this one is extra long to make up for lost time. I've been preoccupied with Burning Man stuff, my apologies to all my faithful daily readers.

Both of you!


The other day, just for fun, I tried Googling Lonestoner to see what would pop up. I've Googled myself plenty of times but this was the first time I've tried Googling an alias. (Sounds dirty doesn't it?) The results were quite unexpected. First off let me start by telling you a little about the name and how it came to be, at least in my case.


My very first internet screenname, way back in the old dial-up AOL days, like 94 or 95, was bongheadbob. While apt, this name could in no way be called original. One night, while sitting up alone and smoking some herb, I was trying to think of a new name, and it occured to me that most of my herb smoking was done alone, and that I very much preferred it that way. I'd always been a loner, and at age 13 was well on my way to becoming a stoner. I was a stoner loner... I was like the Lone Ranger of pot smoking. No wait, I was...

The Lonestoner!

And indeed I was. Keeping my silent vigil over the sleeping masses, blowing smoke rings of protection, my only companions Jay and Conan, and sweet Mary Jane. And so it began.


Getting back to the Google results, I say the results were unexpected mostly because of one Douchebag, who has the nerve to call himself Billy Bud Toker (of Da Unda Hoggs, no less!) a wannabe gangsta rapper who not only took it upon himself to claim the title of Lonestoner, it's the title track of his album! Naturally I was curious to hear the song, but after much searching the closest I got was a 30 second sample. It was enough to go from curious to furious. For those of you who are interested, you can purchase the song for about a quarter, but after listening to the sample I can promise you won't get anywhere near your money's worth. Luckily I won't have to take any legal action against Mr. Toker, since he seems to have faded back into the obscurity from whence he came, but it still pisses me off to have my nome de plume associated with that kind of garbage.


The other search results weren't nearly as infuriating, and some were downright cool, like Lonestoner the banjo player!

Then there was Lonestoner the online Pokemon player, with an impressive record of 0 and 1.

And who could forget this hopeless romantic from Kentucky:

I believe this one might be an old account from way back in my hardcore gaming days:*%20lonestoner/?game=bf2

And of course there was the REAL Lonestoner:


A Google blog search will turn up this blog, but thankfully no others. All in all I guess things could be worse, and I like to think there is a little bit of Lonestoner in all of us!


And now I'd like to end this post with a bit of gibberish verse, reposted from Crypto's nonsense thread on Tribe. The first one is mine, the second is by my Tribefriend Adam and was the inspiration for my gobbledygook.


Lyrics+babbling stream of consciousness=?

By: Lonestoner and various artists


I was born a thorn away from the rotten petals, a forgotten rebel, crafted in the absence of Heaven's heavy hands to develop an evident level of benevolence, so it's probably better I sold my soul to the devil and gave Jebus the shirt right off my back. .


Like Buddy I know about the keys, and the door, and the bees, and yes they call me the breeze, I keep blowing down the road. The only road that I have ever known, and I can't wait to get on the road again, drinking beers and smoking tea. This infantry life's the life for me..., for nothing in this world is free. Except Freedom. NO, wait... .


The killer put his boots on and, walked on down the hall!! He was late for work. Killing was his weekend hobby, just a little something to pass the time while his wife was out of the house. She was supposed to be shopping but in reality she was going down, down, down, to Cedartown to sleep with his brother. Oh brother, where art though? Am I my brothers keeper, and please won't you be, oh please won't you be, my neighbor? I'm not the lizard king, I'm the king of cats. I like funny hats. .


I built a bridge across a stream of consciousness that almost seemed to be overflowing. Up Shit Creek with out any paddles, but still I'm frantically rowing. Reaping what I'm sowing, Wait, without even knowing, I seem to have started badly rhyming. I hate this stream of consciuosness shit I need to quit, I'm over it, hit the switch I'm done with this, that's why I'm not a poet, and the red, red, robin goes bob, bob, bobbin along...


My seeing-eye dog chased a car around a blind corner, you should have fucking seen it, damn your bloodshot eyes! I had to quit using my computer for awhile because of a really nasty virus. This PC works fine I'm just a sick, sick bastard...


I got the rockin pneumonia and the boogie-woogie flu baby, so hit ctrl, alt, delete, and end this task.


Here's Adam's:

... so I was a hippy mall-rat supertramp; entirely unfocused on anything other than my own self-similarity. I saw that in a dream that was a lot like a Williams S. Burrough's novel written on used single-ply toliet paper. Therein my existence became entwined with dust that will never... EVER... dislodge it's grainy little soul from my Coleman sleeping bag. The woman at the free psyllocibin coffee shop was emphatic that I needed to wake up all of my strands of DNA. It was time then to catch the glactic green turtle train to the rainforest which was recently raised to the ground due to the rising demand of cheep beef. I made the journey and sat with all of the now homeless forest critters smoking bongloads and commiserating over what a fucking bummer it is to be out of a home.


Time shifted drastically upon meeting the roadside shaman with rapsheet a mile long. I am sure that he put something in my drink because I started this post in the nineteenth century and it is now a quarter past eleven in the new millenium. I can't sleep when I think about what it is that one would need to conquer their little slice of the world. I scream for donuts but all I get is powdered sugar, there's no substance there for a person in need of doughy goodness. Not that any of this makes any sense at all. It is not supposed to make sense and their are people trying to save my soul by putting it in a jar under their kitchen sinks right next to the two-year old bacon grease.


Then everything folds in upon itself again and there is a break in the world of make believe and what truly is. They dance in constant flux always breathing into each other, kissing without ever touching, bending but not breaking.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

DB#3 Gay Marriage legalized!

It's about fucking time. Now maybe the rest of the country will follow our lead and come out of the dark ages. Gays have the right to fuck up their lives just like straights do, why should us straight people be the only ones miserable? Half of all marriages end in divorce anyway right? So legalizing gay marriage will increase the rate of "Happily Ever After" by fifty percent! It's simple mathematics... The bottom line is that it's nobody's business what two consenting adults choose to do except for the two consenting adults in question, period. The world has much more important things to worry about. For all you gays, congratulations! Now get off the computer and get to work, you've got a fabulous wedding to plan girl!

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

DB#5 -Luv Storrey part1 a short story by Robert J. Day, copyright2008 Robert J. Day

This is the first part of an as yet unfinished short story, my newest. I'm not sure where this story is headed but I do know it's nowhere nice...
Jim Jones was a mess, both literally and figuratively speaking. He was twenty-seven years old, unemployed, and still living with his mother in her tiny two bedroom apartment. Jim's mother was nearly eighty, and suffered from severe Alzheimers and dementia, the state paid the rent for the tiny apartment and provided a caretaker for Mrs. Jones. The caretaker, Mrs. Galloway, was supposed to be a full-time, live-in caretaker, but Mrs. Galloway was a large black woman, and Mrs. Jones was unabashedly racist, and verbally abused Mrs. Galloway at every opportunity. Mrs. Galloway pretended not to mind, but Jim, who was no racist himself and thought all that stuff was rather silly, was humiliated by his eccentric mother's behaviour, and so he convinced Mrs. Galloway to move out and allow him to take care of his mother himself. Nowadays, Mrs. Galloway only came by twice a week to clean up the apartment, the rest of the time Jim and his mother were alone together in the small apartment.
Jim took care of his mom the best he could, cooking their meals, washing the dishes and doing other household chores, and cleaning her up when she had one of her "accidents." Lately there had been a lot of "accidents." His mother's Alzheimers was so bad that she often mistook Jim for her brother, Tony, who had been dead for over five years, and if he tried to clean her up when she was like this, she would scream, and yell at him that she was going to tell Daddy that he was "tryin to get at her again." Other times she called him David, and told him she loved him still even though he'd left her all those years ago. Jim didn't know who David was, his mother had never mentioned him before she got sick, but he was pretty sure she'd once told him his father's name was Paul, so maybe David was some guy she knew before him.
They had no other living relatives, and Jim had no friends. Truth be told, Jim hadn't had a real friend since the second grade, when his best buddy Wesley had moved away. Jim wasn't as smart as the rest of the kids in school, and had to be in the "special" class. Also, his mother had made all of his clothes herself from old scraps of clothes she brought home from the thrift store where she worked. His clothes never seemed to fit right, and with all the patchwork and mismatched buttons, they were obviously handmade. The other kids teased him mercilessly, and everyone, even the kids in his "special" class, called him Patches. The name had followed him all through his school years, and he had remained a social outcast until he dropped out in his sophmore year when his mother had begun to show the first signs of Alzheimers. He was nineteen at the time, and his intention had been to get a job and help pay off some of the medical bills that were even then piling up with a rapidity that was nothing short of amazing, or so it seemed to Jim.
Finding a job turned out to be a lot harder than he thought though. Jim was not a particularly big boy, he was in fact quite scrawny, and as we've already established, he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer either. Also, he was painfully shy, so when he was interviewed the interviewer more often than not came away with the impression that Jim was severely retarded, instead of just a little slow. After several months, Jim was able to get a job at a local fast-food burger joint, but it was just like high school all over again, his co-workers put him down every day, and called him "Corky." One of the men he worked with, Bryan, would torment him everyday, knocking his hat off his head, and kicking over his bucket of fresh mopwater, scalding Jim's feet and soaking him up to his knees. Once when Jim was taking out the trash, Bryan had snuck up behind him and kicked the garbage bag out of his hands, causing it to burst open in the parking lot. "Better hurry and pick up all this shit Corky!" said Bryan, laughing. Jim had been having a really bad day, and he just couldn't take it anymore, so he screamed at Bryan to leave him alone, and then Bryan had stopped laughing and started smiling in a way that made Jim afraid. He punched Jim in the stomach as hard as he could, knocking all the breath out of him in a single surprised whoosh, then he had punched him in the face repeatedly until his nose started gushing blood, and he finally stopped. Jim was afraid and humiliated, and he'd ran all the way home, crying hard and holding one hand over his injured nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Jim had never gone back to that place again, not even to get his first and last paycheck, the thought of facing Bryan again was just too terrifying.
Jim tried to find another job, but it wasn't long after the incident with Bryan that his mother's Alzheimers took a turn for the worst. So Jim asked Mrs. Galloway to help him sign up for public assistance, and he had been taking care of his mother ever since. The only time Jim left the house was when Mrs. Galloway was there to keep on eye on mother, then Jim would go down the block to the supermarket on the corner and get whatever groceries they needed. This was the only break he got, and he tried his best to make the most of these little adventures, sometimes he would stop at Baskin Robbins and treat himself to a chocolate cone, or he would have a chicken sandwich and fries from the Diner next store if there was enough money left over.
Most of the time though, he went straight to the supermarket, and the reason for this was quite simple; Lindsey might be there. Lindsey was one of the cashiers at the market, and she was also the most beautiful girl that Jim had ever seen. Even though he'd never said a word to her he was in love with Lindsey, or at least he thought he was, he wasn't exactly sure what love was, he just knew that whenever he saw her he felt dizzy, and his heart threatened to beat it's way out of his chest.
The thing he liked most about Lindsey was that she was both beautiful and kind, Jim was too afraid to use her checkout lane when he paid for his groceries, (he would have had to speak to her) but he always used the lane next to hers and he saw the way she was nice to all the customers as she rang up their purchases with a smile. She wasn't there every time Jim went to the supermarket, but when she was there Jim forgot about all of his troubles for as long as he was in the store. His crazy mother, his sad friendless life, all of these things ceased to matter to him when he walked through the automatic doors and saw her standing at her register.
When she wasn't at her usual place however, Jim would immediately begin to wonder where she was. Had she gotten another job? Or, worse yet, had she been in an accident? Was she hurt? Had she been kidnapped, and was she tied to a chair in a basement somewhere, waiting for Jim to come and rescue her? These and other equally ridiculous scenarios would play out in Jim's mind while he shopped, and Jim would be in a state of near panic until the next time he went grocery shopping and saw Lindsey standing in her usual spot behind the register in checkout lane number four.
And so it went for some time, Jim lived out his sad life alone with his mother and twice-a-week Mrs. Galloway, and the only real happiness he knew was seeing his beautiful Lindsey at the grocery store. Then one day she spoke to him, and everything changed forever.
It happened quite unexpectedly, but it started out as just another ordinary shopping day. It was a brisk fall day, the air outside crisp and pure and cold. Jim whistled cheerfully to himself as he prepared to leave, shrugging into his old jean jacket with it's many brightly colored patches. He watched a few minutes of General Hospital with his mother while waiting for Mrs. Galloway to arrive, then bade them both goodbye with a hug and a promise to come straight home he had no intention to keep.
His heart felt lighter on the walk to the supermarket, as it always did, but it fell to the floor when he walked through the automatic doors and saw a woman who was clearly not Lindsey standing at register four. Jim was immediately filled with the usual fear that he would never see her again. Something's bad happened to her, I just know it, thought Jim, as he pushed a cart up and down the aisles looking for items on his list. He began to daydream, imagining Lindsey being held captive by ninjas in an old abandoned warehouse downtown. Who would be brave enough to take on the skilled ninjas singlehandedly and rescue the beautiful cashier? Jim, that's who!
"I like your coat." Her voice came out of nowhere, simultaneously bringing him back to reality and causing him to blush a scarlet crimson. She was stocking shelves, and he'd been so caught up in his fantasy he'd managed to walk right by without seeing her. Now he wished he'd kept right on walking, because he had no idea what he was supposed to say.
"You're not at your register." As soon as the words were out of his mouth Jim realized how stupid he must sound, but he felt a little better when she smiled at him. Then he realized she was smiling at him, and he felt as if he might pass out, just faint dead away in the middle of the pasta and sauces aisle. Just a few seconds ago he'd been ready to rescue her, whisk her away from danger like a slightly retarded Spider-Man, and now that she was standing there next to him it was just too much.
"Yeah, they made me stock shelves today, Mr. Nuvoski said I spend too much time talking to the people and I take too long to ring them up, and then my line gets long, so he said I have to stock shelves, since the store is so busy from everybody buying stuff for Thanksgiving and since I'm too slow and I talk too much."
This was as close to Lindsey as Jim had ever been, and now that she was right there next to him and he'd heard her speak, Jim realized something. Lindsey was "a little slow" just like he was!

To Be Continued...


Daily Blog#2! Disc Golf Craze Sweeps Nor Cal!

At some point, perhaps during one of my periods of incarceration, Disc Golf replaced Hackey Sack as the "official" sport of stoners in Nor Cal, and I didn't get the memo. Apparently it's a new state law that if you are between the ages of 13 and 40 and you party, you must also play Disc Golf. I've only tried it a couple of times, but I can see the allure. It's the same allure that most outdoor sports have for stoners, it's all about getting fucked up in the great outdoors. I'm all for that, so while I find Frisbee Golf to be mildly entertaining at best, I still see a set of Discs in my future. Or maybe I'll just kick the Hackey Sack around while everyone else is "golfing."


If these guys spent as much time playing real golf as they do throwing Frisbees around, they'd not only be playing a "respectable" sport, they might eventually be on a first name basis with both the prosecuting attorneys from the D.A.'s office, and the Judge. It's all about networking!

Stag Camp Crazy!

This is what happens when I don't write everyday!

Give us this day our daily Blog!

Allright, so after many years of unabashed hatred and disdain I've been dragged kicking and screaming into the world of internet blogging. Just because you have internet access and too much time on your hands does not mean the world cares about you and wants to read your diary! I still believe that, and I still harbor a great deal of hatred and disdain for most bloggers. The difference is I am a true professional, a craftsmen of the highest order. I am a writer. I always have been, I started writing as soon as I'd learned to really read, in the second grade. It's what I was made to do, and it's what I'm best at.


But ever since Burning Man last year I have been suffering from a near crippling case of Writer's Block. In fact I've written almost nothing of substance at all with the possible exception of a few of my more witty and/or intelligent posts on various message boards. Amidst all the clutter and bullshit there was some decent writing, decent enough to save for later publication perhaps.


Which leads me back to blogging. Instead of rambling on about my cat or the mean girl at work, I'm going to use this blog as a place to post and receive feedback about some of my fiction, and also as a place to write something new everyday. EVERYDAY being the key word! You see I think I may have shaken off the Writer's Block, the muse that I had all but given up on and left for dead has been buzzing around inside my skull lately with increasing frequency. It could be the Great American Novel, or it could just be some really good hashish, but either way I will write a new blog post everyday.


So the mean girl at work kicked my cat today...

In the News today...


Well it looks like Barack Hussein Obama will be our next president. I'm not sure how I feel about this yet, but I do know it's good for race relations in this country, and an Obama/Hillary? ticket certainly beats the hell out of McCain and whomever... Still, he's no JFK, as I've heard him being compared to, or even FDR. The douchebag idiot from Rolling Stone was right about his (Obama's) charisma, I'll give the swine that much. Being a good showman and being a good President are not totally mutually exclusive, but I think only time will tell if Obama represents real change, or just the same old song and dance with a newer, younger, fresher, and slightly blacker face.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

Why Drugs Are Illegal. From the book Ain't Nobody's Business If You Do, by Peter McWilliams

JACK NICHOLSON: My point of view, while extremely cogent, is unpopular.
JACK NICHOLSON: That the repressive nature of the legalities vis-a-vis drugs are destroying the legal system and corrupting the police system.
LOS ANGELES TIMES: Let's talk about acting for a minute.
CONSUMERS UNION—the highly respected, scrupulously impartial organization responsible for Consumer Reports—studied the drug problem in this nation long and hard.
Its conclusions—yet unpublished—are: This nation's drug laws and policies have not been working well; on that simple statement almost all Americans seem agreed. . . . They are the result of mistaken laws and policies, of mistaken attitudes toward drugs, and of futile, however well-intentioned, efforts to "stamp out the drug menace." [What we have in this country is] aptly called the "drug problem problem"—the damage that results from the ways in which society has approached the drug problem.
The Consumers Union report made six recommendations. I quote:
1. Stop emphasizing measures designed to keep drugs away from people.
2. Stop publicizing the horrors of the "drug menace."
3. Stop increasing the damage done by drugs. (Current drug laws and policies make drugs more rather than less damaging in many ways.)
4. Stop misclassifying drugs. (Most official and unofficial classifications of drugs are illogical and capricious; they, therefore, make a mockery of drug law enforcement and bring drug education into disrepute. A major error of the current drug classification system is that it treats alcohol and nicotine—two of the most harmful drugs—essentially as non-drugs.)
5. Stop viewing the drug problem as primarily a national problem, to be solved on a national scale. (In fact, as workers in the drug scene confirm, the "drug problem" is a collection of local problems.)
6. Stop pursuing the goal of stamping out illicit drug use.
The report, which is nearly six hundred pages long, concludes, These, then, are the major mistakes in drug policy as we see them. This Consumers Union Report contains no panaceas for resolving them. But getting to work at correcting these six errors, promptly and ungrudgingly, would surely be a major step in the right direction.
I'm sorry. I lied. The previous excerpts were not from a "yet unpublished" report. The report was published in 1972. It was published by Consumers Union in book form, Licit and Illicit Drugs. It asked for its proposed changes to be made "promptly and ungrudgingly." Instead in 1972, President Nixon began our most recent war on drugs. How successful has prohibition been? To give but one example: since 1972, according to the office of National Drug Control Policy, annual cocaine use in this country has risen from 50 metric tons to 300 metric tons.
How and Why Drugs Became Illegal
One might wonder after reading the United States Constitution how Congress can justify making laws against drug sale, use, and possession. As we have seen, the enumerated powers given Congress by the Constitution have to do with keeping the national borders strong, keeping the business environment healthy, and collecting taxes. It would take the legal word-bending ability of a lawyer to stretch the enumerated powers enough to include making drugs illegal. Alas, one thing Congress has plenty of is lawyers. Here, then, is the abbreviated story of how and why drugs became illegal in the United States. It is filled with more abuses, horrors, deceptions, and possible harm than any illegal drug has ever done. Prior to 1883, there were no federal laws against the manufacture, sale, use, or possession of drugs. As drugs had been available since before the Pilgrims arrived, the United States seemed to survive—even thrive—with no drug restrictions whatsoever. The primary "drug problem" was alcohol—not marijuana, morphine, or cocaine. Even state laws against drugs did not begin to appear until the late nineteenth century. In California in 1875, a blatantly racist law against opium was passed. Prejudice against the Chinese was high. The city of San Francisco prohibited establishments where opium was smoked. The law—like all drug laws that followed—failed. The large, well-run opium houses closed, but were immediately replaced by smaller, less reputable opium dens. A similar law was passed in Virginia City, Nevada, and similarly failed to work. Rather than realizing that such laws don't work, the Nevada state legislature made even more stringent laws. The state laws didn't work any better than the city laws, but that didn't stop other cities and states from passing laws. When all these laws failed, the United States Congress got involved. (Sound familiar?)
In 1883, Congress used its constitutional power to "lay and collect taxes, duties, imposts, and excises" to heavily tax imported smoking opium. That abuse of the tax provision of the Constitution was the foot in the door. What followed was a wedge of misuses and abuses of power that not only tore the door off the hinge, it ripped away the entire front of the house. Once taxation was used to act on a popular but inaccurate belief (in this case that the Chinese were debauching the youth of America by enticing the innocent young into their opium dens), the die was cast. The power to tax, then, was no longer what the founding fathers had intended—a way to raise money—but had become a way to legislate "morality" as well. Making matters even worse, as this was a prohibition act pretending to be a tax bill, its enforcement fell under the Department of the Treasury. From 1883 until 1968, the Secretary of the Treasury had the dual duty as not only Collector of the Tax, but Keeper of the Public Good. Even if the United States needed a Keeper of the Public Good, putting it in the same department as the tax collectors and money counters was probably the worst choice.
The country's first drug ban explicitly targeted the opium of "the heathen Chinee." Cocaine was first banned in the south to prevent an uprising of hopped-up "cocainized Negroes."
Once the precedent that the federal government could legislate morality was established, no one gave a second thought to the law passed five years later prohibiting altogether the importation of certain kinds of opium and preventing the Chinese in America from importing opium at all. The United States Treasury was now giving up revenue (the tariff on the opium imported by the Chinese into America) in exchange for regulating consensual personal behavior. The anti-Chinese prejudice was such that the United States Treasury was permitted to abandon its primary job—collecting and spending money—in exchange for this new mission. Over the next thirty years, taxes on smoking opium went up, went down; smoking opium was banned altogether; the ban was lifted and reinstated again. During this time, the tax ranged from $6 per pound to $300 per pound. All that these regulatory and restrictive efforts accomplished, however, was to build the Chinese underworld (the "tongs"), corrupt the Treasury Department, and increase the nation's opium smoking at least nine fold. The Secretary of the Treasury wrote the Speaker of the House of Representatives on January 12, 1888, "Although all possible efforts have been made by this Department to suppress the traffic, it has found it practically impossible to do so." The United States government, of course, responded with more laws and more law enforcement officers. As this onslaught only affected "the heathen Chinee" [sic] and not "Americans," no one much cared. All other forms of opium—the types preferred by most white Americans—were perfectly legal and modestly taxed. Why should anyone worry about defending the rights of the Chinese? If they wanted to smoke opium, it was said, they could go back to China. A legal precedent, however, was set by the racist opium restrictions.
The next major step in federal drug enforcement was the 1906 Pure Food and Drug Act. This act said that all patent medicines containing drugs had to say so on the label and, with later amendments, had to state the amount of the drug. This requirement was a positive step in that it allowed people to regulate the kind and amount of drugs they took. It was only later that this act became yet another weapon in the arsenal used for the federal attack on individual choice. (More on the Pure Food and Drug Act in the chapter, "Regenerative Use of Drugs and Other Unorthodox Medical Practices.") The next major move by the federal government—and the great-granddaddy of all federal drug restrictions—was the Harrison Narcotics Act of 1914. The bill's chief proponent was then–Secretary of State William Jennings Bryan, a staunch fundamentalist, Prohibitionist, and famed orator. His oratory on behalf of Woodrow Wilson won Wilson the presidential nomination, and Wilson appointed him Secretary of State in appreciation. Eleven years later, Bryan would lead the prosecution in the Scopes Monkey Trial, winning a conviction against the schoolteacher who had the audacity to teach Darwin's "unbiblical" theory of evolution in the public schools. The Harrison Act, in fact, did not prohibit drugs. The act only regulated and taxed the importation and distribution of "opium or coca leaves, their salts, derivatives, or preparations, and for other purposes." It seemed reasonable to regulate, not prohibit, opium, cocaine, and their derivatives. "It is unlikely that a single legislator realized in 1914," wrote Edward M. Brecher, "that the law Congress was passing would later be deemed a Prohibition law."
Even in the National Report on Drugs, Crime, and the Justice System, published in December, 1992, the United States government admits, The Act was ostensibly a revenue measure that required persons who prescribe or distribute specific drugs to register and buy tax stamps.
The Oxford English Dictionary defines ostensibly as "under mere profession or pretense." The government admits, then, that the law was deceptive. It deceived the legislators who passed it and the public who accepted it. The only people who complained were physicians. This from the National Report: From the first, the Treasury Department held that medical maintenance of opiate addicts (treatment through declining usage) was not permissible, but physicians opposed this view. . . . Initial enforcement included arrests of physicians, pharmacists, and unregistered users.
Six months after the passage of the Harrison Act, an editorial in American Medicine stated, Narcotic drug addiction is one of the gravest and most important questions confronting the medical profession today. Instead of improving conditions, the laws recently passed have made the problem more complex. . . . Abuses in the sale of narcotic drugs are increasing . . . a particularly sinister consequence . . . is the character of the places to which [addicts] are forced to go to get their drugs and the type of people with whom they are obliged to mix.
In 1918, the Secretary of the Treasury appointed a committee to look into the drug problem. The committee found that, in the four years since the passage of the Harrison Act, underground drug traffic was flourishing, "dope peddlers" had established a national organization, smuggling was rampant, and the use of the forbidden substances had increased. What did the government do? Well, of course, it made new and stricter laws. In 1922, it created the Federal Narcotics Control Board. In 1924, it banned the importation or manufacture of heroin in any form, even for medical purposes. Since that time, one of the most effective painkillers known has been missing from the pharmacopoeia of physicians—even though in 1925 Dr. Lawrence Kolb concluded, after an elaborate study, "If there is any difference in the deteriorating effects of morphine and heroin on addicts, it is too slight to be determined clinically." In 1967, the President's Committee on Law Enforcement and Administration of Justice came to the same conclusion: "While it is . . . somewhat more rapid in its action, heroin does not differ in any significant pharmacological effect from morphine." Has either of these reports changed the government's mind? Come now. It was, in fact, the heavy restrictions placed on morphine that turned addicts to heroin. Like hard alcohol in place of beer and wine during Prohibition, heroin—being more concentrated—was easier to transport and smuggle. People who were content to drink morphine began injecting heroin simply because heroin was more available and the cost-per-high was lower. (As we shall see shortly, the same is true today in the relationship between crack and cocaine.) Did the new and stricter laws work? Here is an excerpt from an editorial in the June 1926 issue of the Illinois Medical Journal:
The Harrison Narcotic law should never have been placed upon the statute books of the United States. It is to be granted that the well-meaning blunderers who put it there had in mind only the idea of making it impossible for addicts to secure their supply of "dope" and to prevent unprincipled people from making fortunes and fattening upon the infirmities of their fellow men.
As is the case with most prohibitive laws, however, this one fell far short of the mark. So far, in fact, that instead of stopping the traffic, those who deal in dope now make double their money from the poor unfortunates upon whom they prey. . . .
The doctor who needs narcotics used in reason to cure and allay human misery finds himself in a pit of trouble. The lawbreaker is in clover. "
The government's reaction? Why, of course, more laws, stricter enforcement of the laws already on the books, and yet another agency. In 1930, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics (FBN) was created within the Treasury Department under the direction of Commissioner Harry Anslinger.
Enter one of the true villains of the piece—particularly with regard to marijuana prohibition—Commissioner Anslinger. From 1930 until he was forced out of office by President Kennedy in 1962, Anslinger ran the FBN with the same tight reins—and questionable ethical procedures—that his contemporary J. Edgar Hoover held at the FBI.
By 1932, the evangelicals were in desperate need of a Cause and a Leader. Their previous Cause, Prohibition, was obviously running out of steam, as had their previous Leader, William Jennings Bryan. (Shortly after winning the glorious victory for the literal interpretation of the Bible in the Scopes Monkey Trial, he literally ran out of steam and died.) After Prohibition the evangelicals turned to keeping creationism taught in the public schools, censoring those disgraceful Hollywood movies, and ending the drug menace. In the latter Cause, they gladly cleaved to the bosom of their new leader, Commissioner Harry Anslinger.
Poor Harry. Try as he might, he never obtained the recognition and personal glory Hoover did at the FBI—or even that of Postmaster-Turned-Hollywood-Censor Hayes (with his Hayes Office and Hayes Production Code). For some reason, Anslinger had a real seed under his dentures when it came to the subject of marijuana. Yes, he was ruthless in pursuing all those other narcotics violators—the coke-heads and the junkies—but there was something about marijuana that infuriated him. Perhaps it was because marijuana was not officially labeled a narcotic, thus not under his jurisdiction. Perhaps it was his well-documented racism. Perhaps he wanted a drug to call "his own" and hold proudly before the evangelicals as David had held the head of Goliath. Perhaps he wanted to be a hero in the Hearst papers, as Hearst was suddenly printing provocative anti-hemp stories. Perhaps he was on the take from DuPont. Perhaps it was some combination of these.
Dupont? Hearst? What did two business magnates have to do with marijuana prohibition? Plenty. In the mid-1930s, machinery was perfected that would allow the hemp fiber to be more easily and economically separated from the plant. This meant paper, clothing, and other manufactured articles could be produced from hemp at prices far more competitive than ever before. This did not sit well with two American giants: William Randolph Hearst and the DuPont Corporation. Hearst not only printed newspapers; he made the paper on which to print them. If hemp became the primary source of paper, not only would much of Hearst's paper-making machinery become obsolete, but all those forests he purchased could only be used as backdrops for Marion Davies movies. Hearst began attacking hemp at every opportunity. Earlier, Hearst had successfully turned public opinion against Hispanics. Many believe he and fellow yellow-journalism baron Joseph Pulitzer started the unnecessary Spanish-American War. Hearst used the Mexican term for hemp, marijuana, in his many salacious anti-hemp stories. Most Americans never associated marijuana with the hemp their grandfathers grew, or the extract of cannabis their grandmothers took. Hearst's headlines included such joys as
And guess who was quoted in Hearst's papers as saying, "If the hideous monster Frankenstein came face to face with the monster marijuana he would drop dead of fright"?
Yes, none other than "H. J. Anslinger, head of the Federal Narcotics Bureau." Hearst's paper went on to "report," This is not overstatement. Users of the mari- juana weed are committing a large percentage of the atrocious crimes blotting the daily picture of American life.
It is reducing thousands of boys to CRIMINAL INSANITY.
And ONLY TWO STATES have effective laws to protect their people against it.
The marijuana weed, according to Mr. Anslinger, is grown, sold, and USED in every State in the Union. He charges, and rightly, that this is not a responsibility of one State, but OF ALL—and of the federal government.
DuPont, meanwhile, had just patented a process for making paper from wood pulp (which Hearst would use extensively in the years to come). The process, which relied heavily on DuPont chemicals, was not necessary in manufacturing paper from hemp. Additionally, DuPont had recently taken German patents and perfected the "miracle fiber" nylon, to be manufactured from coal tar and petroleum products. Inexpensive, readily grown hemp fibers would put a damper on two of DuPont's future money makers, paper production and textiles. Make of these facts what you will. One thing is certain: Hearst and DuPont made a fortune thanks to the prohibition of hemp.
Anslinger used his position of authority to encourage states and cities to ban marijuana. In 1935, Anslinger announced, In the absence of Federal legislation on the subject, the States and cities should rightfully assume the responsibility for providing vigorous measures for the extinction of this lethal weed, and it is therefore hoped that all public-spirited citizens will earnestly enlist in the movement urged by the Treasury Department to adjure intensified enforcement of marijuana laws.
By 1937, forty-six of the forty-eight states, as well as the District of Columbia, had laws against marijuana. At Anslinger's urging, marijuana was labeled a narcotic and had the same strict penalties as morphine and heroin. The wild reports continued in Hearst newspapers and magazines. Commissioner Anslinger took quill in hand himself on occasion—his prose as bad as his prohibitions. This, for example, from Hearst's American Magazine of July 1937: An entire family was murdered by a youthful [marijuana] addict in Florida. When officers arrived at the home they found the youth staggering about in a human slaughterhouse. With an ax he had killed his father, mother, two brothers, and a sister.
He seemed to be in a daze. . . . He had no recollection of having committed the multiple crime. The officers knew him ordinarily as a sane, rather quiet young man; now he was pitifully crazed. They sought the reason. The boy said he had been in the habit of smoking something which youthful friends called "muggles," a childish name for marijuana.
I don't know about you, but I've never met a pothead that ambitious. In Hollywood, in his famous Production Code, Mr. Hayes prohibited any positive mention of drugs. (Cigarettes, of course, were just fine.) Hollywood joined in the propaganda madness (at Hearst's encouragement?) and made the now-classic Reefer Madness. In 1937, Anslinger rushed through Congress the Marijuana Tax Act. Anslinger had waited because the question of whether or not it was acceptable to use the tax provisions of the Constitution to justify prohibitions was before the Supreme Court. On March 29, 1937, the Supreme Court decided that machine guns could be prohibited by first passing an act taxing them, then using the tax-law to ban them altogether. On April 14, 1937, the Marijuana Tax Act was introduced to Congress. The testimony before the congressional committee was, for the most part, provided by Anslinger, Anslinger employees, and Anslinger reading Hearst newspaper articles, some of which he had written. The hearings were reminiscent of the scene from John Huston's film, The Bible, in which John Huston, playing Noah, has a conversation with God, also played by John Huston. The film was produced and directed by John Huston. The narrator: John Huston. Curiously, neither Hearst, DuPont, nor Anslinger had by 1937 created the myth that marijuana use leads to heroin addiction. During the House hearings, a representative remarked, "I am wondering whether the marijuana addict graduates into heroin, and opium, or a cocaine user." Commissioner Anslinger replied, No, sir; I have not heard of a case of that kind. The marijuana addict does not go in that direction.
And how many doctors were heard in the congressional hearings in 1937? Precisely one. He represented the American Medical Association. The AMA opposed the bill. At least twenty-eight medicinal products containing marijuana were on the market in 1937, the doctor pointed out; drugs containing marijuana were manufactured and distributed by the leading pharmaceutical firms; and marijuana was recognized as a medicine in good standing by the AMA. From an editorial in the Journal of the American Medical Association (May 1, 1937): After more than 20 years of federal effort and the expenditure of millions of dollars, the opium and cocaine habits are still widespread. The best efforts of an efficient Bureau of Narcotics, supplemented by the efforts of an equally efficient Bureau of Customs, have failed to stop the unlawful flow of opium and coca leaves and their components and derivatives, on which the continuance and spread of narcotic addiction depends.
Like the Harrison Narcotics Act before it, the Marijuana Tax Act claimed—even in the title of the bill—only to tax marijuana. It was yet another deception perpetrated on Congress and the American people: the intent of the bill was never to tax, but to prohibit. Beyond mere deception, however, the Big Lie to Congress was yet to come.
In testifying before the congressional committee, the doctor sent by the AMA said the AMA had only realized "two days before" the hearings that the "killer weed from Mexico" was indeed cannabis, the benign drug used and prescribed by the medical profession for more than a hundred years. Said Dr. Woodward, We cannot understand, yet, Mr. Chairman, why this bill should have been prepared in secret for two years without any intimation, even to the [medical] profession, that it was being prepared.
Anslinger and the committee chairman, Robert L. Doughton,DuPont Dynasties, Robert Doughton was a key DuPont supporter in Congress.> denounced and curtly excused Dr. Woodward. When the marijuana tax bill came before Congress, one pertinent question was asked from the floor: "Did anyone consult with the AMA and get their opinion?" Representative Vinson answered for the committee, "Yes, we have . . . and they are in complete agreement." The Big Lie. The bill passed, and became law in September 1937. Anslinger was furious with the AMA for opposing him before the congressional committee. As the commissioner of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics, he could prosecute any doctors who prescribed narcotics for "illegal purposes." Which purposes were "illegal" was pretty much Anslinger's call. From mid-1937 through 1939, more than 3,000 doctors were prosecuted. In 1939, the AMA made peace with Anslinger and came out in opposition to marijuana. From 1939 to 1949, only three doctors were prosecuted by the FBN for drug activity of any kind.
In 1944, Mayor Fiorello La Guardia and the New York Academy of Medicine released the La Guardia Marijuana Report, which, after seven years of research, claimed that marijuana caused no violence and had certain positive medical benefits. In a rage, Anslinger banned all marijuana research in the United States. He attacked La Guardia vehemently. In 1948, however, Anslinger dropped the "marijuana causes violence" argument. He made, in fact, a complete about-face when he testified before Congress in 1948 that marijuana made one so tranquil and so pacifistic that the communists were making abundant supplies available to the military, government employees, and key citizens. Marijuana was now part of a Communist Plot aimed at weakening America's will to fight. That this statement was a complete reversal of his congressional testimony only eleven years before went unnoticed. Anti-communism put Anslinger back in the public eye, along with his good friend Senator Joseph McCarthy. It was later revealed by Anslinger in his book, The Murderers, and also by Dean Latimer in his book, Flowers in the Blood, that Anslinger supplied morphine to McCarthy on a regular basis for years. Anslinger's justification? To prevent the communists from blackmailing such a fine American just because he had a "minor drug problem." In 1970, in passing the Controlled Substances Act, the federal government shifted its constitutional loophole for jailing drug users and providers from taxation to the federal government's obligation to regulate interstate traffic. This is as dramatic a violation of the Constitution as the taxation excuse, but it fit the government's plan better. Under this law a bureaucrat—usually not elected—decides whether or not a substance is dangerous and how dangerous that substance is. There's no more messing around with legislatures, presidents, or other bothersome formalities. When MDMA (ecstasy) was made illegal in 1986, no elected official voted on that. It was done "in house." People are now in jail because they did something that an administrator declared was wrong.
The Controlled Substances Act was circulated to the states where it was enthusiastically received; most states have modeled their programs on the federal plan. There is no longer a need, then, to deceive legislators: the agency heads and their minions simply decide what the law is, and that's that. Today, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics is, like its former director Anslinger, no more. How's this for a bureaucratic shuffle: In 1968, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics (FBN) was transferred from the Treasury Department to the Justice Department, where it was merged with the Bureau of Drug Abuse Control (BDAC) to form the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs (BNDD). In 1973, during the early skirmishes of the war against drugs, the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs (BNDD), the Office for Drug Abuse Law Enforcement (ODALE), and the Office of National Narcotics Intelligence (ONNI) all combined to form the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA). (I hope you're paying attention: there will be a quiz.) As the war against drugs escalated, one agency was not enough. In 1988, the National Drug Enforcement Policy Board (NDEPB) and the Office of National Drug Control Policy (ONDCP) were formed. The director of ONDCP—now a cabinet-level position—was given the title that Mr. Anslinger (anti-communist sentiments notwithstanding) would have killed for: The Drug Czar.