The Contrarian

Moses Was High On Drugs.

Well, duh. When was the last time you saw a burning bush? And I'm not talking about your date last weekend, har-har.

This kind of thing is typically Mr. Interlandi's beat, but he's MIA. Come to think of it, so is Mr. Caldwell. Maybe it's time to change the masthead?

Get Your Stinkin' Paws Off Me. . . By Jebson Interlandi.

"We finally really did it. Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!"

While I forever identify with Planet of the Apes' monkey-loving, bare chested Taylor, I also realize the above quote may seem out of context. What can I say? I'm pissed off.

Readers of this blog are intelligent and informed, so I won't bother going into a point-by-point dissection of drug policy and the myriad flaws within the legislation, but I will make a few bold statements. [ED: God help us.]

Back in April, Gaelle Caroff — a 17 year old French girl — leaped from a bridge or a building right here in Amsterdam and died. She was under the influence of psilocybin mushrooms (and possibly other substances) at the time. It is often (wrongly) assumed that drugs are legal over here in the Netherlands. Cannabis and psilocybin fungi are tolerated in small amounts. Considered soft-drugs, mushrooms are proffered in "smart" shops, while cannabis must be purchased and toked within "coffeeshops" — actual coffeeshops are simply called cafés. This system works, and is wonderful for those who believe psychoactive drugs can be beneficial when used moderately and responsibly. I, personally, was attracted to Amsterdam for its sane approach to psychedelics. It's wonderful to feel free to pick up an eighth of Hawaiians once every couple months, or whenever I feel like it. Tripping isn't always pleasant, but for those interested in self-improvement and comfortable with introspection, it can be far more effective than therapy. But again, the nature of the experience depends largely on the individual.

This, perhaps, is the biggest factor for debate: who should be allowed to use mind-altering drugs? The problem being that, while some people are mature and informed, others are complete morons.

Psilocybin mushrooms are now officially banned in the Netherlands, thanks to foolish tourists like Gaelle and a handful of others. That may sound cruel of me to say. While I'm always sad to hear of such pointless death, people should know the risks, particularly if they have preexisting psychological disorders, as was apparently the case with Gaelle. But what bothers me the most is the level of ignorance displayed by the legislators themselves. Because I've seen it all before in the US.

If I die in a car accident. . . let's say I'm driving a Toyota, do we subsequently outlaw Toyotas?  School-shootings: do we make guns illegal? Perhaps we should, but it won't happen because legislators don't actually represent their constituencies' best interests. If American lawmakers really understood citizens they'd know that more than half the population will, at some point in their lives, consume illegal drugs — making them criminals in the eyes of the Law. So technically, the United States is an outlaw culture.

Governments have a terrible tendency towards treating their citizens as though they are babies in the crib. Of course, when I look around I see that a seeming majority are babies in cribs, waiting for Mommy to put on their bib while they giggle, burp and smile naively. That's fine for some, but not all of us are as helpless.

My point is simple: legislators and politicians are not the ones who should be making decisions about chemicals or medicine. Leave that for the doctors, scientists and scholars. Of course, even the experts are ignored if and when they actually step up. There's plenty more to say regarding the corruption, inconsistency, and downright stupidity surrounding current drug-policy, but I trust you're already well aware of this. 

Here in Amsterdam, this new bill will go into effect within the next couple of months. Yet again, my personal liberties have been forfeited by the idiocy of an influential minority. I know a few people who've died from drink. . . Odd that I can still buy booze anywhere. This legislation represents lazy thinking, pure and simple. Hey Holland, guess what?  Just like in America, people will continue to buy the drugs you are trying to eliminate. But they'll now resort to street acid and unlabeled 'shrooms (a great thing over here was knowing which variety you were selecting). Tragedies will still occur (perhaps even more often), and crime will go up, since formerly simple capital transactions will now be black-market events.  All you are doing is forcing respectable and responsible people into the dark-alleys. Don't you understand human-nature? Thanks. Really. For keeping us safe.

A Beetle in the Yay. . . By Jebson Interlandi.

So, the other night I was relaxing and prepping to watch episode ten of "Mad Men." I was wearing my suit and tie; a glass of Jack, neat, rested next to the computer. (I should mention that I believe in interactive viewing and I don't care whether it's a TV show or a movie, I always pretend to be the hero).

My only violation of character (and time-period) was when I sprinkled a few lines of the Devil's Dandruff onto my TV-tray. I admit, I was hasty with the ATM card cut-up job. By my second line, I instantly felt a clog. Pressing my left nostril shut, I sprayed my nasal-contents all over the computer screen. Amazingly, there were more colors than the expected reds and whites. I leaned in for a closer look and, lo and behold, I discovered . . little black antennae?  Could it be?  And a little tiny compound eye? When I saw the tiny mandibles, I could no longer contain my revulsion, and I further desecrated my laptop with vomit.

Well, it's a day later and I now know the score. You see, Peru has gotten rather innovative in its smuggling methods of late. Turns out those industrious Incans have been stuffing dead beetles with cocaine and sending them over to the Netherlands, parcel post. 300 grams of cocaine were uncovered by customs officials. $11,305.09 is the estimated street value. But it seems the authorities weren't completely successful in staunching the drippage: I coughed up part of a wing an hour ago.

Oh, and in regards to the title of this post. . . I know, and I'm sorry. But how often does one get this kind of opportunity?

What else?  Animal-rights activists have convinced some Holland coffeeshops to make their "spacecakes" [ED: Sources confirm this is street slang for hash brownies] with eggs from free-range chickens. I love the news over here.

Cheers.

Identity.

I spent part of the summer re-reading a few Philip K. Dick novellas; specifically the ones in the new Library of America edition. Shaky prose aside, Dick was a genius at examining the seemingly paper-thin constructs that comprise individual (and group) identity.

Of course, he did have a head full of amphetamines and a predisposition to mental illness.

But what if perceiving one's lack of fixed selfhood didn't result in madness? Is such awareness even worth pursuing? Most people are loathe to even approach the idea, especially in this culture, where ownership and entitlement are the essence of self-definition.

My friend Jebson, who is currently in Amsterdam pursuing a graduate degree in Hermetics and Western Esotericism (or is he gobbling fresh mushrooms and taking baths in hash oil?), recently wrote me with the advisement that even art needn't be proprietary:

In Western literature and art, there is a salient emphasis placed on the creator and not the created... Eastern art tends to be devoid of author, or painter or musician. I'm not saying I prefer it that way, but in our culture I think the artist is far too hard on himself for not accomplishing certain financial and/or commercial goals.

That made me think back to a profile I did on sound artist Greg Davis, who, in the course of our chat, stressed that he always tries to "let go" of a piece of music once he's finished with it. Playing the devil's advocate, I suggested that art is necessarily egotistical, being the imposition of one's aesthetic will on reality. He countered that he thinks of it more as "putting a frame around something" — an attitude not dissimilar from John Cage, a lifetime Zen acolyte and one of Davis' chief inspirations.

Hitting the cushion (with my ass, not my fist) every day has served to re-remind me of these points, to the degree that I can't believe I ever forgot them in the first place. Ego is one tricky bitch.

In any case, it's interesting to see things from the perspective of relative freedom. Struggles and hardships continue to occur, but with less fixation, they're less enduring. Ideas about oneself are more or less like cloud formations in a semi-clear sky. Kind of whoopty-fuck, you know? Selfhood becomes like a wardrobe. This one might be all you can currently afford, but it fits well enough. Tomorrow, maybe you'll even wear a vest — who knows?

Still, there are downsides to fluid identity. Those unwilling or incapable of observing their states of being may find themselves the victims of dangerous delusions. A recent post on Undead Molly references an article in the latest Wired about an internet relationship involving multiple levels of identity fraud. The spookiest thing about the story is the degree to which the principals fooled themselves. So be sure to stay mindful when you're self-swapping, k?

Nothing may be true and everything indeed permitted, but that doesn't mean it can't be plain nasty business.

Stay tuned for your regular programming...

Ejaculation, money and summer jamz. Got your attention? Good.

According to Slate, the FDA will soon rule on an anti-premature ejaculation drug. Allow me to state that I'm the last guy in the world who needs this particular pharmaceutical.

Here's the skinny chubby:

A company will seek foreign approval to sell the first drug for premature ejaculation. The FDA rejected the drug two years ago, apparently because 1) it has side effects (nausea and "momentary loss of consciousness") and 2) "regulators questioned whether helping men last longer during sex was a clear medical benefit." Arguments for approving the drug and covering it under health insurance: 1) Premature ejaculation "can cause emotional distress for men and their partners." 2) Viagra has already reframed sexual problems "as a disease in need of treatment." 3) If we don't pay for drugs targeted at premature ejaculation, men will keep using more potent antidepressants for the same purpose.

Like a fine cocktail and appetizer pairing, enjoy this MP3:

Bad Brains — "Pay to Cum"

Onward.

It's no secret that pretty much everyone has a blog. It's like the 'zine craze of the late '80s-mid-'90s inflated to unimaginably self-aggrandizing and excruciatingly banal proportions. But is it possible to actually make money while posting pictures of your drunken long weekend? Sort of. Music Thing's Tom Whitwell shares his adventures in blog capitalism.

MP3: Devin the Dude — "She Want That Money"

And... The Onion A.V. Club wants to you to identify the song of summer '07. Duh — It's obviously "Umbrella."  Speaking of, I'm just finishing my cover version. I'll post it by Monday.

Lastly, Morrissey snipes at Madonna:

The eco-friendly rocker told concert-goers about fur-loving Madonna, "I wouldn't be surprised if she [Madonna] made that African boy into a coat and wore him ... for 15 minutes, and then threw it away." [24/Sizzler.com].

Will she do the same with our old pal Eugene Nicolaev Hutz?

Podcast next week.

Yippee-Kay-Ay, motherfuckers.

The title of this post does not refer to Die Hard IV, which looks fucktarded.

I'm talking about Cocaine Cowboys — a documentary chronicling the meteoric rise and grisly fall of nose-candy entrepreneurs in Southern Florida during the late 1970s-early-'80s.

And dig: Jan Hammer provides the original music for the film!

At two hours, CC is pretty long, but it never failed to hold my interest. A marvel of editing, the movie tells its tale without the benefit of a voice-over. The narrative is constructed through contemporary interviews, archival footage from news reports and crime photos. The players offer their own story, and the media does the rest.

The first half of the movie concerns two regular Joes who made scads of money (and I'm talking the gross domestic product of Lichtenstein here) on the smuggling side. Neither of 'em were cokeheads — they actually got their start pulling in marijuana from South American sources, before being drawn into the increasingly lucrative powder biz. Their job was to fly the stuff directly from the Columbian cartels; a dangerous proposition, to be sure. But these gents had transportation down to a science, and they had little to worry about besides which multi-million dollar property they were gonna buy next. For a while, that is.

A curious thing happened to the Miami economy in these years: numerous shell banks popped up for the sole purposes of laundering drug money, of which there was no shortage. Retail business also profited enormously, with Rolls Royce dealerships, jewelers and furriers appearing seemingly overnight. It wasn't uncommon for a player to have several (and I mean, like, seven to ten) expensive cars, all retrofitted like in Scarface. Construction boomed; most of the skyscrapers and resorts in the city are said to have been built with illicit capital.

Things were going swimmingly in this summery no-man's land until the Cubans and Colombians started beefing. Then it got ugly real fuckin' fast.

Cocaine Cowboys certainly doesn't shy away from carnage, meaning it's not for the squeamish. If seeing bodies mutilated by heavy machine gun fire turns your stomach, you should probably skip it.

It's hard to believe that any of this shit took place in the United States. The streets of Baltimore portrayed in The Wire actually look safer, and that's fiction. Well, mostly, anyway.

Mobster movies have conditioned us to the violent extravagances of the Italian-American mafia. Those guys are like cuddly kittehs compared to the Colombians, who have no reservations about killing entire families (including young children) to send a message. At the top of this terrible food chain sits Griselda Blanco, aka The Godmother. More than two hundred murders were carried out at her bequest. A sequel to Cocaine Cowboys, centering solely on Blanco, is due this summer.

I usually don't side with Federal Law Enforcement on drug policy, but in this case, something obviously had to be done. I don't want to spoil anything, but let's just say George H.W. Bush and his DEA shock troopers took care of business.

Now Miami is once again safe for old people, rich college kids and D-list celebrities. Sigh. I guess we'll always have Vice City.