On what is truly an historic night in America, let us not forget the cost of attaining this "victory."

We should refrain from celebrating too brashly until the very last soldier is safely back home.

I do not what was more surprising: that we had attempted such a coordinated maneuver for my second trip ever or that we actually pulled it off.

Throughout my Sophomore year, Tim, Tony and I were three amigos. Tim and Tony were both Juniors and TKEs. Tim lived in the TKE house, but Tony was down the hall from me in an upperclass-only dorm. And being the pseudo-intellectual pseudo-socialists we were, we operated on a communal system with respect to food, booze and pot. Cigarettes to a certain extent as well, though Tony was always a bit of a smoke mooch. 

As you may or may not recall, Fall of my Sophomore year was when I dropped acid for the first time. My first trip was relatively mellow. I split a tab with a friend (he had the best advice ever for tripping: "It's your trip. Everyone else can deal with it."). I got a pretty good body buzz and had a good time. Being a newbie, I had no idea about the microdot and such, and I realize now that I probably "missed the dot" and just had the speedy effects of the hit, but it was a good time nonetheless (other than the strychnine hangover!).

The Plan was rather simple. We each had a tab. We would each drop at 8 PM from different locations and then recovene at 9 PM or so and rage for the rest of the night. My two roommates were out for the night, so I had the two-room suite to myself. We had turned one room into a bedroom/study and the other into a lounge, with couches, television, Nintendo (original NES, baby!) and a full bar. After I took my hit, I decided to take a quick shower and get cleaned up.

Now, I do not know whether I had a particularly good or strong dose or what, but by the time I got out of the shower, I was starting to feel that hum. Those of you in the know understand what I was feeling. I picked up my razor to shave, but when I looked at my hand, it was pulsating fairly significantly, so I thought better of it and put the razor down. I dried off, brushed my teeth, sat down and watched one of those Friday night news magazine programs (on ABC, I think).

I will never forget the story I watched. It was about how Turner Broadcasting had instituted a complete smoking ban for its employees. Now, as this was 1991, complete bans on smoking at work were becoming more and more common as people became more conscious of the issues associated with secondhand smoke. So, in and of itself, the story looked rather banal. But then came THE TWIST! Turner Broadcasting was not just prohibiting employees from smoking at work. Turner Boradcasting was also prohibiting employees from smoking AT ALL. ANYWHERE. ANY TIME. EVEN when not "on the clock."

Again, keep in mind that this was 1991. The digital age was barely beginning. The right to privacy was still relatively sacrosanct, both in jurisprudence and in common practice. A private employer of this size had thus never gone so far as Turner Broadcasting was going here. Employees were required to sign loyalty oath-esque pledges not to use tobacco products of any kind. And Turner Broadcasting would even hire private detectives to investigate employees to ensure compliance with the pledges. I remember looking up at the ceiling and thinking, "Woah." And then I saw them.

On the one side, Smith was bellowing about the free market and the right of individuals to run their businesses as they see fit. On the other side, Rousseau was clamoring about the Social Contract and the obligation of government to protect individuals from this sort of tyranny. And then I realized that I was tripping. REALLY tripping. I was tripping balls. Little did I know that this was just the proverbial tip of the iceberg.

I finally got my shit together enough to head out. Tony was nowhere to be found, so I headed over to the TKE house. By now it was after 9 PM, so the house stereo was out and the music was playing. I wandered into the main room on the main floor and found Tim and Tony. Tim looked like a fucking mess. Evidently, Tim had ended up doing a BUNCH of whiskey shots. And not good whiskey. Old Crow ("Old Dead Bird") or some crap like that. He said at one point that he was looking up at the ceiling, and a crack in the paint became his heart monitor. And he thought he was flatlining.

And then we began the quest to end all quests. At some point, Tim had misplaced his shirt. Ordinarily, this was not a big deal; however, he had some pot in the pocket of the shirt. So DEFCON 5 quickly became DEFCON 1, and we started scouring the house high and low for the shirt. Tim was going around telling everyone the (excessively protracted) story of how he lost his shirt and that he needed to find it and that his pot was in his shirt. At some point, his "I lost my shirt." became (or became interchangeable with) "I lost my shit." Given the night he had, it was apropos. 

Eventually, we found his shirt. And his shit. Mind you, we ended up smoking pot with folks in about every room in which we stopped along the way, and many, many Milwaukee's Best cans were consumed for hydration (cottonmouth) purposes, so attaining our goal was no small feat. But, having reclaimed The Grail, and in the midst of a massive trip, we decided a change of scenery was in order. Tony said he had "Dark Side of the Moon" and more beer back in his room (he had a double room all to himself!), so we made the Odyssey-like voyage (across a street) back to our dorm.

So we are chain smoking cigarettes and bowls like crazy. And then the music starts. That unmistakable heartbeat crescendo. And the laughter. By the end of the first song, we are all just sinking into the couches (not unlike that scene in "Trainspotting" where Renton descends into his grave). Oh, I should probably mention that this was the first time I listened to the album straight through. I think you see where this is heading, right? The beginning of "Time" was quite...well, alarming. But I managed to survive, probably because I was so far gone that I really had no ability--much less inclination--to do anything but sit there.

And then came that blissful moment when you peak at just the right time. It is no wonder that this remains one of my favorite (favourite, perhaps?) moments on any rock album. And the source of one of my favorite Twitter gimmicks as well. "Any Colour You Like", at about plus-3:33, when she whispers "If you can hear someone whispering, you're dying." Wow. Just, wow. At that moment, I looked at Tim and then at Tony, and Tony said, "Is it just me..." and Tim continued "...or does it feel like..." and I finished "...the room is filled with Jello?" We were all RIGHT THERE. Harmonic convergence, if you would.

The rest of the evening was relatively mellow. We finished the album. We smoked some more pot. We headed back over to the TKE house and hung out with other folks, recounting our tales of philosophical impasses and flatlines and quests and epiphanies and such. I do not remember when we finally called it a night. I do think I slept until about dinnertime on Saturday. But I will always remember Tim and Tony and dying in the Jello room.

I heard this on SiriusXMU this morning and realized that I did not have any Pulp on my player, so I bought a compillation album along with two Fucked Up compillations (talk about contrasts!) today at work (LOVE Amazon Cloud Player!). I had forgotten how good these pouty Brits were back in the day. And Wikipedia (so it MUST be true) says they are reuniting this summer. Everything old IS new again...

The singspeak is rather Lou Reed-esque, no?

I heard this on the way home from traffic school, and I had to have more (not unlike Lady Day herself, no?).

Did I mention that I fucking LOVE The Velvet Underground?