I once was an Eskimo. I once dwelled in a cold world that was easily warmed by my aspirations and endless idealism. At one point in time I had reached up the World’s skirt and grabbed it by the balls as if I were in Lou Reed’s imagination.

I remember eating acid as if it were the Eucharist and I was attempting to get a white collar via the ceremonial exchanges of precipitation and perception on a missionary sabbatical from a rectory found so familiar and safe. The woods were all around and the children gaily sung and screamed and simply made asses of themselves for the glory of another’s glee. Youth is such a sexy thing that can only be touched once.

I have tripped on LSD well over a Euchre’s set and enjoyed almost every time. I have had liquid LSD dropped directly into my eyes. I have eaten tablets, paper squares, gel-tabs, micro-dots, sugar cubes, and just straight liquid. Many magical mystery tours have been had and each had their own presence and prowess upon my psyche.

My first experience was when I was 16 and I ate one hit of white blotter. A friend of mine was spending the night and we were going to dose and listen to music in my bedroom. We were in a band together and writing lyrics was a sidebar agenda. About 30 minutes after we dropped my mother asked if we could watch my three sisters (one of them was only a mere babe of one years old at the time) as she was going to go out. In order not to get busted we agreed and ended up watching Pink Floyd’s ‘The Wall’ on the television in the living room. Such a silly film!

My second trip was by myself in my bedroom, floating around on my waterbed and seeing Hindu kaleidoscopes on the stalactite stucco ceiling. For years after that, I would see those swirling patterns of Vishnu and Ganesha on the ceiling. My companion was that of a phone call to a girl named Harmony French. She had corn silken strands of blond hair that fell completely straight down past her waist and she was earnestly a depot of lust for me all through High School. It was a simple night, until my Mom wanted to go out again and left me in the roll of the tripping babysitter. Ahhh, the trials of growing up.

I could go on and on about my trips. When I saw my hand melt from the fingertips down into pools of flesh in my palm that burst bubbles of skin back up into the air, only to pop into skin rain and re-form my fingertips. When I could not remember my name or who I was or where I was or why I was. When I ate so many mushrooms (an ounce in a day and a half) that I stopped tripping and just became delusional with a schizophrenic break. I remember watching the Anaheim Hills fires from 2004 high on mushrooms and laughing at the helicopters bringing in water. I remember tripping on sugar cubes going into Harvard Square on the Red-Line and watching the rats talk to each other as they scurried across the rails.

I really don’t know where this posts goes other than how it was brought into my mind. I heard this song last night on the radio and I had not heard it for awhile.

Just before I heard this song, I heard a radio news rap about the clocks changing and it seemed odd, a bit off.

It was four weeks off.

I thought a schism had arose; a long deep scar of something long forgotten.

When a friend of mine recently returned from the Colorado Phil Lesh shows he brought back some real clean gel-tabs and extended the invite. I just said ‘no’ and made Nancy Reagan proud.

With the time change f’ing with me and all I have learned from, I am happy for Nancy and her McDonald’s make-up screaming anti-drug.

Wait a minute … now I know the time change is f’ing with me.

Legalize and get over it!

Today, it would be heard, "Quinn, Out!"

Scary indeed, as I retreat to my cup of meat.

Godspeed …