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This
place was rockin’ man, what with the mushroom Vision Quests,
plant stoked euphoria, tiger soul transfers and the like until
the Pilgrims came along. “This Land Was Made For You
And Me” chirps the agit-prop ditty. This Land has since
been re-landscaped for ‘Me’ only, ‘Me’
being those who find it easier to filch the masses if they smite
education and freedom of choice.
Where
there is a law, however, there is a way around it, although you
have to use your wits if you weren’t Skull and Bones at
Yale.
Of
late, I became increasingly intrigued each time I drove by Ecstacy,
a small store on gutter-chic Melrose Avenue. Ecstacy promises
legal, herbal highs - both ‘party’ and ‘profound’.
Its façade looks slightly shady, providing romance in that
venerable ‘slum to score drugs’ tradition (note to
FBI media scanners: not that I’d know).
I
cyber checked ‘Ecstacy’ before I paid a call, just
in case they were linked to the sex enslavement of gently tarnished
former party girls. Imagine my shock to find out that The Temple
Of Ecstacy, Inc. is a $150 million dollar a year business!
The
T of E website is slick, both corporate and weird enough to trust.
They mail order internationally and supply other like companies.
Their products are packaged in pleasing variations of that classic
‘Sixties “Fuck The Man” aesthetic.
This
psychonaut was stoked. Perhaps these concoctions were indeed the
best of both worlds.
I
went to Ecstacy on a Friday’s dusk, escorted by my Nice
Jewish gay raver friend, Tricks. We had to hustle over at rush
hour’s evil peak, because the store closed at eight. Mighty
uncool, but, like, they don’t need the cash.
“Oh,
how quaint — it’s a head shop!” Tricks squealed
as we made our way in. “Or rather, a head shop manqué.”
I
selected a signature Herbal Ecstacy for the evening’s entertainment
and a ‘booster’ to amp it up. Not cheap. “Good
Lord, for a scosh more we could get the real thing!” Tricks
whined.
I
also bought a potent inner-journey hallucinogenic, Salvia Divinorum,
for future use. My brain can be a fearsome place, and that night
I wanted out, not in.
Our
party pills contained ephedra, in the form of the plant Sida Cordifolia.
They will be yanked from the shelves when the ban takes effect.
Our salesman was understandably peeved.
“Ten
thousand people a year die in the U.S. from aspirin,” he
scoffed.
I
checked this out. It’s true.
Back
at Tricks’ Goth-O-Rama loft, we lit candles and incense,
blasted The Sisters Of Mercy and, for lack of better word, ‘dosed’.
He was on the phone, barking something about Vera Wang, so I took
the opportunity to Google the ingredients of my ‘score’.
As I logged on, Tricks yelled to me, “I feel something.”
I did too.
I
saw online that what I ‘felt’ was a clever sleight-of-hand.
The bedrock of all Herbal Ecstacy products is ephedra and caffeine,
or vice versa. But there are more ways to say ‘ephedra’
and ‘caffeine’ than there are Wangs in the Beijing
phonebook.
Coursing
through my veins was Sida Corfolia (ephedra), Yerba Mate (caffeine),
Guarana (caffeine) Green Tea (caffeine), Chromium Picolunate (stimulant)
plus soft-core tripster stuff like Gotu Kola and Amanita Muscaria
Mushrooms.
The
‘booster’ pills were, baldly, Ephedra and Caffeine.
The
combo’s blooming effect resembled those times when, as a
schmendrick teen, I stole Mom’s prescription ‘diet
pills’ and rounded them out with a swig of Spanada. A nearly
Proustian Remembrance of Things Past.
“So
what do you think of this stuff, Tricks?” I ask
ed while
we stared at the ceiling. Tricks thought. Despite his moronic
mien, he is a Classics PhD.
“I
think,” he drawled, “that it’s not magic. No
spirits are here. It’s not even ‘body,’ really.
Its more like ‘epidermal.’”
He
paused to pat down a rebellious fake lash. “Real, quality
MDMA is a sinuous journey. It dilates the Third Eye to the flow
of light and love.”
“I almost feel a little… lonely.”
“Oh,
baby, please don’t say the ‘L’ word,”
I replied. “C’mon, let Mother rat your hair.”
By
the time I drove home the Herbal E’s buzz was gone, but
sadly, not forgotten. I was bug-eyed awake the whole damn night,
whizzing in loops, gut seized, with stabbing leg cramps.
The next
day I looked like a feral raccoon. So it’s wrong to say
that I had no real, authentic ‘drug’ experience. I
did — the bad cut.
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