general Archive through April 21, 2004

i strongly agree about ratdog being better. ive been trying to tell people that for years but i always get shot down. they keep getting better imo.i think robin sylvester was an excellent addition to the band. i still enjoy seeing the other guys play though. provided phil dont sing mountains of the moon. or just dont let phil sing at all..lol

The are getting better every year. I just missed them at the 9:30 Club in DC but I saw them there in 2001. Great show. I have seen them 2 times without Wasserman and I agree that they sound better without him. They play a mean Maltilda Mother/ Tomorrow Never Knows/ Matilda Mother. They are THE best show in town.

I agree don't let Phil sing at all. Bobby and the boys play smaller venues which is great and they have this "vibe" around them. They're like electric jazz/funk/blues/rock/reggae. Only one song I wish they would get rid of and that's Even So.

Don't worry about trying to convince people. At least I know you are right :P

I don't care for the huge crowds and very much prefer the intimate "Evening with Ratdog"

The only show I've ever been at where I've seen people put the green sticky bud right on top of Kenny Brooks setlist only to have him pick it up and take it with him durring break

Great band. Great fans. I can't wait until my friends they come around...


"i strongly agree about ratdog being better. ive been trying to tell people that for years but i always get shot down. they keep getting better imo.i think robin sylvester was an excellent addition to the band. i still enjoy seeing the other guys play though. provided phil dont sing mountains of the moon. or just dont let phil sing at all..lol"

Did anyone ever get busted?

What was it that the narc said that made you sure he was a narc??

we've just added a new sponsor
http://www.spores101.com/

plz check them out.

[chnop35]

Awesome!!!

<font face="verdana,arial,helvetica"><font size="+2"><font color="ff0000">WE</font><font color="ff6000">LC</font><font color="ffff00">O</font><font color="aa00aa">M</font><font color="0077aa">E</font> <font color="ff0000">!</font><font color="ff6000">!</font><font color="ffff00">!, </font><font color="119911">SP</font><font color="0077aa">OR</font><font color="aa00aa">ES</font><font color="119911">1</font><font color="ffff00">0</font><font color="ff6000">1</font></font></font>

Great prices!

[Hefex78]

ONE MAN
(a short story) or not... maybe nothing... who knows... don't read it you'll be better off.
By Wa7sum

1
A pristine notion of the world was handed down to a man once: an image smooth
and clear unburdened by reality. Ideas once were a precept to what was possible
for this man. The concept that whatever was thought could easily be placed into
action and then achievement. This cruel illusion was true at one time ? before
the coil of life's multitude sprung into the brutal infinity of this man's
perception. This man was much alike any normal person. Struggling as he was to
find worth in a world he found to be worthless and mesmerizing all at once.
Before the journey of this man's life took place a decimal value of worth was
placed upon him by his ancestors. From a successful family he emerged ? a
success not measured in finances but knowledge and cognition. An unspoken
expectancy of admiration due to his genetics but not his feelings.
At one time this man was a boy. At an age far to young this boy's father died
of cancer, but not really. Stress, confusion, and misery were the cause, but
not nearly as much as the alcohol who swallowed his father into the belly of
escapism. Boo hoo hoo ? This is a sound the boy heard from other members of his
family. The sound became a constant appendage of his reality in the months
surrounding his father's death. Though, strange as it may seem, the boy could
never bring himself to imitate the sounds. He sat and slept and read and
watched those people around him whom his father's death had ruined. He couldn't
understand why they were sad. And for this he felt misery. He felt as though a
part of his mind was broken or maybe he wasn't sane. Sometimes in the middle of
the night he would boo hoo hoo ? but not because of any sadness. He cried for
emptiness. Something was missing ? always hiding around the corner ? something
this boy needed, but could not have. He couldn't feel sad about anything, it
wasn't possible, many hours of tossing and turning with the tap tap tapping of
thoughts torturing him. Many nights past ? endless, sleepless, nights of
madness.
Possibly because of insomnia the boy grew hatred for his father. A hate that
was filled with love. He couldn't formulate the thought. It didn't make any
sense to him. He wanted to put a bullet in the head of every person who tried
to show him comfort. Was it truly his father he hated? Or was it something
else. Was it the confusion his father had caused? That couldn't be it, and he
knew it. He remembered how all was the same even when his father had lived, if
you want to call it that. He remembered his life had been based upon the
happiness and the worth of others. He was satisfied with his family only when
they were happy. Though, satisfaction isn't real, nothing is. He morned to
himself, hiding from life under books instead of alcohol, until one day.
The boy was a man again. Things had not changed over the past 6 years it
seemed, accept for that very fact: he was a man. But then again, maybe things
had become different, but not his feelings. He now smoked cigarettes and weed,
he partied at raves, sometimes dropping Ecstasy and LSD. On the weekends he
would find himself eating mushrooms, rampaging about his house with music full
blast, despite the fact that his senile grandmother was trying to sleep in the
next room over. It probably didn't matter, she was deaf as an eyeball.
Sometimes he would drink cough syrup and sometimes he would overdose on it ?
puking horridly over the floor of his bathroom, showering in pools of piss,
feces and vomit. He hated himself, so why not. Other times he would find
himself fucking a female he neither loved or liked. She was a bitch. But the
temporary escapism her beautiful body gave to him was a good enough
justification. One time during the summer of some loathed year he was fucking
this girl in the shower of his house. And it was his house ? by this point no
one else lived in his 4 bedroom abode. Though, constantly it seemed his mother
would return to check up on him. She didn't trust him, and why should she? He
had just bent the bitch over in the shower and put it in when he heard his mom's
car pull up outside. He didn't give a shit. He opened the door to the bathroom
and began to move faster so his mom would hear them fucking when she came
inside. He loved pissing her off. The girl screamed as they orgasmed. The man
didn't make a sound. He showed no emotion on his face, he didn't half to fake
his feelings when they fucked in the shower. He could bend her over without
making eye contact. Blank faced he pulled out and walked out of the shower to
take a piss. Sometimes this girl would get high with him. They would tell each
other how much they loved one another, how they would be married one day, how
everything would be alright. It was of course, bullshit. Maybe he hated her
because she was so much like himself ? an empty vessel waiting to be filled with
something, anything that could make him forget. They bumped cocaine and would
ramble endlessly about culture, government ? the conversations never lasted to
long before they decided to fuck. They consumed each other's bodies and drugs
and when they weren't fucking or fucked-up they hated each other, almost as much
as they hated themselves.
And then the night came again. The night. It was the one thing this man could
rely on. He hated it. It taunted him, laughed at his pathetic existence. The
night didn't mean what it meant to most people. Sleep was rarely a facet of the
night's character. The night consisted of brutal mental turmoil. Like the
lingering of a man hung upon a wicked hook suspended over a chasm in space,
tempting you to help, methodically tap, tap, taping in your mind. The horror of
memories might nullify the effect of sanity. A sunken body, purple with knotty
ribs and swollen skin, cling to his carcass like wet paper over a barbwire
fence. This man alive and dead at the same time, for what is life without
death? Immortal as the undying sun, endless in his torture, confused by his
very breath. Each thought meaning the same as the last. Nothing. Irrelevant
thoughts of experience hold no baring in comparison to infinity. Immortality is
unnatural to life, its essence is the very opposing force, the opposite, the
ying of yang, it's structure the anti-sane, swimming as it does within the
endless sea of madness.
A porous scalp bleeding contempt ? breeding hatred ? like maggots seething from
the host of death ? through retina out of eye ? squirming through pores and
tissue. Remove a bleak thought for a rushing river seemingly flooding rich
perception, idea, mind, cunt, apple, spoon, cytoplasm, zygote, cigarettes, cell
phone, death, mushrooms, road-kill, circles, bluish-orange, candy stripes,
cancer wards, insecure, bullshit, Xanax, the Lorax ? beating tirelessly through
his mind, splintering vessels, scorching lucidity ? confusion. Ideas mean
torture from ultimate serenity of sleep. Recycle him please. Heaven is a
synonym for hell ? an unknowing counterpart to timelessness. It screams at him.
A bloated deafening screech, piercing comprehension like a vice grip clamped on
the temples of a crushing head. Perception squeezed by panic.
Then day comes. It's just like night in that aspect. It always comes. The
only reason this man liked day more than night is because there were things that
might distract him from himself. In the day people were around and alive, back
from the hell of night. He hated it when other people were happy or at least
acted like they were. He knew they weren't. Everyone was full of shit to him ?
phony and uncaring of their own sad existences.
School was ritual. Everyday he went fucked-up on something, usually cough
syrup. He made Ether in the chemistry lab and huffed it off of the school's
block-letters that the jocks would later sew onto their $300.00 jackets and
prance around like they were the be all-end all of importance. His only friend
was a girl ? his acting buddy ? that he did care for, in a way. Though, he
could never really tell, his reality was skewed as usual by drugs. They would
read together, laugh about bullshit, act out dialogues, get in fights then
apologize the next day. This girl was beautiful. She had been a model until
she became fed up with the bullshit of the occupation. Her mood swings were as
severe as his. Some days when she was depressed she would make him her
intellectual whore, telling him how she didn't want to be with her boyfriend and
then follow it up by how she had thought he was cute and how she had liked him
for quite sometime. Then she would go home and fuck her boyfriend and forget
about everything she had said. Or go to the mall and buy a new pair of shoes to
show off the next day. Shoes always made her happy for a day or two, if that.
One time this man had become homeless. His mom had kicked him out of his
house. When his mom was making her usual appearance, coming from her
boyfriend's house, usually in the middle of the night, he had been caught
shooting up heroin and cocaine. His mom screamed at him tirelessly. He didn't
care. He told her to fuck off, go home you whore, I hate you, things to that
extent. This isn't what compelled his mom to kick him out of her second house,
his house. When she was leaving he slammed the door. This one action was all
his mom could take. She told him to leave before she called the police. And so
he did.
Because of his homelessness, the girl he admired invited him to live with her
at the house she was house-sitting. They would sit around and watch movies in
their underwear. Though, this usually wasn't a good idea due to the vast amount
of cleavage hanging out of the girl's bra, that consequently always gave him a
visible hard-on. She didn't care. In fact, it was obvious that she liked it.
Why else would she always suggest that they watch movies in their underwear?
They would act out dialogues that involved kissing. Hamlet was the play,
he-Hamlet approached her to kiss the fair Ophelia, his nervousness dripping out
of his face. He never kissed her. She had a boyfriend, not that he cared, it
was strange. She would always close her eyes before they practiced stage
kissing, under the preface of it being unnecessary until they were actually on
stage. So they would act out the scene to the extent of their lips stopping
only millimeters apart. The warmth of each others' breath cascading over their
faces, the moment seemingly unending, heart rates heightened. Then, the act
would continue.
Sometimes he hated the acting. His acting buddy was so good at it he could
never tell if she was provoking him to kiss her or not, maybe she was just in
character, he didn't know. And then, once again, he would find himself fucking
the other girl, the bitch. He thought of his acting buddy while he fucked the
bitch. Again and again they screwed. He never came to her for sex, she would
always plaster her face with makeup, put on a revealing dress, take off her
underwear, then come over. He really didn't give a shit about sex. It was
simply something to do, something to fill his time, something that allowed him
to forget.
The man felt completely overwhelmed by media coverage, political conflict and
war. Was this the infinite unrest held by the fate of humanity? Somewhere
inside of him he wished for an ultimate spiritual evolution towards cerebral
completeness, a recognized union of life. It wasn't going to happen. His
familiarity with life had bread contempt. Happiness didn't exist in his eyes,
only temporary satisfaction, whatever that meant. The blood coursed through his
veins again, rhythmically pounding to the beat of adrenaline. His veins
splintering again, the battery acid within them congealing thick misery. Single
serving life-styles crushed by furious pace, never slowing, only accelerating.
To what? The peripherals of his vision were non existent. Narrow like a dead
ending cave, neglected from light, forgotten by time. These places he had been
before, he hated them and loved them, just like his father.

[negativezer0]

in humboldt its 80 a 1/4o and 40 an 1/8o
sothern california its 100 a 1/4o 50 an 1/8o

[negativezer0]

have us beat? 50 an 1/8 is average...humboldt probably has the best average buds in any place that ive heard of...(at least in the US) and often their prices are lower too! and an added plus? glass is also cheaper as well; i saw many nice custom bubblers for 60$...no shit.

<font color="0000ff">Welcome!!</font>

Someone emailed me this URL.

While this tale of me may be true, some aspects of it are not.

The person who wrote this is currently unknown, yet claims to have met me over the years on several ocassions. I doubt some of the claims since I did not have a beard during the period of the meeting 22 years ago or so for my mushroom book Magic Mushrooms of the PNW.

At that time my book was only $2.50 a book, not the cost he mentioned and AS I noted, I have only had a beard since late 1999.

http://theleagueofrockers.com/page_3002.htm

mj

Enjoy this story.

[chnop35]

I enjoyed the story.
Amazing how people touch each other's lives, some without even knowing it.
What is that Altered States? A movie from back then?
Also what happened to him? Was it the vapor from the boiling amanitas? Have you ever tried them?
I found one last summer and left it alone.

Here's how I know he was a narc or more appropriatly, a rat.

In highschool I used to party with a guy we'll call Tim Smith. He was 3 years younger so I took him under my wing and we partied together.
Of course I graduate and move on and I dont' see him except maybe once every couple years at a bar or something.

Last summer I run into Tim Smith at a bar and we start talking about old times etc etc. We get on the subject of shrooms and he mentions the fact that you can grow them so I told him that if he wanted I would give him a syringe since that's all i had. End of discussion with Tim Smith.

**notes from encounter with Mr. Smith. He's bulked up tremendously. Has been gone for a few years.

Now Mr. Smith waits a few days and calls about the syringe. The machine got the call and I got his message but I didn't call him back.

A week later I see Mr. Smith at a bar and tell him that I got his message but didn't have time to call him back. His reply, "oh man I was beginning to think that you thought I was working for the cops or something" "I'll pay you for a syringe." Ok now I know something ain't right, why pay me for one when he could EASILY order his own? I tell him that I already gave it away and drifted over to the bar.

I didn't think nothing else from this encounter with Mr. Smith. Now skip ahead in time about 6 months. I'm at the Rats house when he leans over to me and says "You know you can grow those? I was talking with your good friend Mr. Smith"

DOH!
I interupted him and said:

What the fuck did you say? I know him but I haven't seen him for 6 months and before that it was probally 4 years so he's hardly a good friend. What the fuck are you trying to get at Rat?? "Ahh nothing, I was just saying that I was talking to him the other day"

Ahh okay the red flag was up and he blatently through it out there. I later talked to another friend (whom I trust) and he said that he thinks Mr. Smith got into some trouble for moving some serious shit in the city.

Freaked me out but probally not the worst thing in the world to know who the rats are.

We are back and open for business...
all those interested in the 100 syringes and 100 needles offer then please feel free to email me now.

[onetime]

you should come to the pnw to puff imo better than hombolt well its about the same depending on who where you go but it still 120-170 for some dank ass shit afoaf said can sell for 100-130$ a 1/4oz in socal

Hope you had fun because I sure as hell am! Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooah

I see you couldnt resist getting to a PC I_AM_ME...
Tell Claudia in the red light district hellof or me....IM me when you get back man and have fun!!!!!!!!

good read, kept me busy....

http://www.island.org/news/Owsleyinterview3.pdf

[jim]

I've been trying to get this working for a few days. Now it's finally working. I hope I will now be able to post some pictures. I was worried my pictures for the Bare Naked Lads contest might all be in vain.

I don't however have my e-mail set up yet. I wanted to registar (finally, after so many years of coming here) and was wondering if it is possible to do so without having an e-mail address. I have some PMs I wanted to take care of right away.

WEll HJames II wrote me back. IT was my Safe-Pik guide which he bought two of at the time, not magic shroms of thepnw.

So I thought this would be cool. Tried to post the page but it would not copy the tesxt when I saved it to word.

mj

you can read an interview of me at http://www.releasethereality.com/mjart.html

have a shroomy day,

When I was in college I had a "friend" who was a freshman when I was a Senior. I fronted him some pot so he could sell some an smoke some. He got busted. I picked him up from security and drove him 4 hours home. He didn't mention he had ratted me out. Now some chick calls but it is my roomate who answers. They do some business on the basis that she is friends with my friend and he said we were cool. So then she does business with another roommate, and then we all consider her more or less a regular. Then when she is visiting me for the first time she pulls a gun and says "lie on the floor" and then all the other staties bust in guns out and raid the house. We were small time, selling eigths. They busted us all.
My friend was "sorry"

You all should be careful!

[billyboy]

I bought PF classic off of spores101 a few weeks ago from ebay..

Syringes are almost 100% clear with a tiny bit of spores..

Interesting thing though is, The spores have either started germinating in the syringe or theres a tiny peice of cotton binding the tiny clump of spores together.

I've still yet to test the syringe.

I'll keep yall posted

- BB

<font color="0000ff">Sourceaily Record
Link

£3.95 KIT TO FOIL DATE-RAPE DRUGS Apr 7 2004
Pub test detects spiked drinks
By Craig Mcqueen

A KIT to test drinks for date-rape drugs could soon be sold in vending machines in bars.

The businessmen behind the £3.95 Drink Detective claim it could save hundreds of women and men from drug rapists.

But campaigners fear publicans will refuse to sell the kit in case it scares away customers.

Nearly 1000 Britons in the last year have claimed they were raped by attackers who spiked their drinks.

And a study last year that tested 200 drinks from Glasgow and Edinburgh nightspots found one in 12 contained date-rape drug rohypnol.

The credit-card sized Drink Detective can test for the three main types of date-rape drugs GHB, ketamine and tranquillisers such as rohypnol and valium.

Pubgoers can put a few drops of their drinks on to three pieces of sensitive paper. The paper will change colour or lines will appear if the drinks have been spiked.

The kit's makers, Bloomsbury Innovations, say it will give results in 30 seconds. Company director Stanley Grossman added: 'The Drink Detective can empower women and men to take control of their drinking environment.

'It will not solve the drink rape problem. But with widespread use, it can make a good start.'

Drug rape is notoriously difficult to prove because victims struggle to remember attacks. But Grossman said the Drink Detective would make sure that such crimes were no longer 'risk-free'.

Sandra Smith,of Central Scotland Rape Crisis, said it was 'fantastic' that such a kit was available. But she added: 'I'd have concerns about the cost and people may only use it when they suspect their drink has been spiked.

'Would people be willing to use it in front of someone they might suspect of adding something to their drink?

'And these drugs can have an effect in 10 minutes, by which time it may be too late to test your drink and move to a safe place.'

The scientists who developed the kit admit it is far from infallible. They say red or orange drinks may cause false positive tests and there will be problems testing neat spirits or cocktails containing milk.

Also, scores of drugs can be used to spike drinks and the kit cannot test for them all.

Some cash from sales of the kit will go to the Roofie Foundation, a group for drug-rape victims.

Graham Rhodes, chief executive of the foundation, said: 'It will be a deterrent but it will not solve the problem.

'We need a big public awareness campaign,led by the Government, to alert people to the dangers.

'Also, this kit will only work if it is accepted by publicans. And as yet, no one has taken it. They all seem to be too scared of people associating their club or pub with drink-rape.'

The Roofie Foundation have received 6650 reports from people who said they had been drug-raped or sexually assaulted after their drinks were spiked.

There were 2036 cases involving pubs and 1368 in nightclubs. Fifteen per cent of alleged victims were men.

Despite the high number of reported cases, the Roofie Foundation say there have only been 15 convictions for drug rape.</font>

i saw that, sounds promising albeit limited.
of course
where i come from
a spiked drink
is considered a freebie.

ever catch em at ziggies tavern in winston/salem, nc? that place kicks ass. holds about 900 freaks.

Heres a better one...

i dunno,
without a face
it kinda loses meaning

<blockquote><hr size=0><!-quote-!><font size=1>quote:</font>

i dunno,
without a face
it kinda loses meaning<!-/quote-!><hr size=0></blockquote>

<font color="0000ff">I had to read that twice to know you really did say that.</font>

it's kinda like
how if you say a certain word
over and over and over
it loses meaning and just becomes sound ?
stare at the cleavage awhile
and the titties too
shift into something not sexual at all
just motion.
that was my meaning,
i thought that the face in the 1st toon
off-set that,
as my brain sees faces in a special area
more developed than the area to detect motion.

<font color="0000ff">Source: NYU News
Link

True confessions of... A student drug lord
Part three in an eight-part series. Next week: True confessions of... a Stern cheater

by Meena Hartenstein
Contributing Writer

At 20 years old, Jack*, a Stern School of Business sophomore, retired from dealing marijuana. In just a year of selling the drug, he raked in about $50,000.

"If you really want to know," Jack said conspiratorially, "there were really only three dealers at NYU. I was one of the three."

The roots of an enterprise

It started off by chance, Jack said; the lucrative business just fell into his lap.

Early in the first semester of his freshman year, Jack moved into an off-campus apartment with Ben*, a drug dealer Jack characterized as "pretty bad at it." Drowning in debt and on the run from creditors, Ben came to Jack for help, saying, "they're going to break my legs," Jack said.

From the moment he met Ben, Jack was critical of his business choices, and he realized it was only a matter of time before he would supplant him.

Ben was more than $11,000 in debt, and Jack, in an effort to bail out his roommate, took over his business and balanced the books, using the experience he gained as a small-time dealer in high school.

"[Ben's] flaw was that he just smoked his product," Jack said. "That's how he ended up with all this debt and that's how I got in this position."

Once he took charge of Ben's enterprise, Jack decided to keep selling. Through Ben, he had "a connection and a customer base," which Jack said enabled a smooth transition into the large collegiate market.

Soon Jack was making between $2,000 and $5,000 a week, depending on the demand. "The week you get back from Thanksgiving is ridiculous," he said. "Everyone's just gone home and seen their parents and they come back, like, 'Oh man, I've gotta smoke some weed.'"

"The week before midterms is terrible," he added. "Nobody wants to buy."

Selling almost exclusively to small-time, on-campus dealers, Jack was able to limit the number of business contacts he made, avoiding sleazier drug buyers while raking in the profit.

"The margins aren't as high percentage-wise," he said. "But it's still a lot of money, and you deal with much less shady clientele."

Jack compared his business model to that of a fellow dealer, who sells marijuana directly to people who smoke and has about 150 customers. Jack, who only had six customers last year, said he made more money with less risk. "Think how many bad things could happen if 150 people know you're dealing," he said.

The pros and cons of dealing

Jack used his illicit earnings to buy a plasma-screen TV, airplane tickets to visit friends and dinner at elite restaurants like the Peter Luger Steakhouse, his favorite indulgence.

"It's $100 a head, and everyone around you is 45," he said, recalling his costly dining experiences. "You look around, and you're like, 'Wow, I'm 20.' And you just laugh and laugh."

Yet with all the perks Jack got from being a dealer, he also got one thing he didn't want: full-time paranoia.

"You've constantly got to be thinking about who owes you money, whom you owe money to, and who knows you're dealing," he said. "It's a constant hassle."

Sometimes, he added, the paranoia was too great a burden to shoulder comfortably. "One day I got out of a taxicab, and I had a bag full of weed and a pocket full of money, and I opened the door into a traffic cop that was issuing a ticket," he said. "I was so freaked out. That's like life flashing before your eyes."

The end of an era

"All of a sudden, it didn't feel right," Jack said gravely. "One of my friends got arrested, another one got robbed, and I lost money on both of those deals."

Since he was interested in preserving his immaculate police record, Jack decided it was time to call in his chips. "I was happy to quit while I was ahead," he said.

Today, Jack says he is financially secure enough to avoid drug-dealing for good. And in his absence, the NYU drug game is undergoing some changes.

When he retired, Jack sold his customers to one of NYU's two other primary marijuana dealers. Now that one of them is about to graduate, "Basically all of NYU's traffic goes through one guy," Jack said, adding that the new drug lord commands a great deal of traffic.

"NYU is a big drug school, it definitely is," Jack said.

Now that he's out of the illicit business, Jack's making his supplemental income in a more legal, more mundane fashion: investing in the stock market.

"I find the market allows the same amount of risk as far as losing it all but makes up for it by eliminating the possibility of getting robbed or arrested," he said.

Retired though he may be, Jack said he would find it easy to get back into the game if he really had to. "If someone was like, 'Jack, I need some,' I could deliver," he said.

* The names Jack and Ben are aliases constructed to protect the subjects' identities. </font>

<blockquote><hr size=0><!-quote-!><font size=1>quote:</font>

"The week you get back from Thanksgiving is ridiculous," he said. "Everyone's just gone home and seen their parents and they come back, like, 'Oh man, I've gotta smoke some weed.'" <!-/quote-!><hr size=0></blockquote>

<font color="0000ff">So you guys actually DO notice faces? LOL j/k</font>