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Marijuana mohawk (you heard me, correctly)
01.20.2012
10:40 am

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Amusing
Drugs
Fashion

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I’ve never really cared for the mohawk much as a hairdo—it’s more of a hair don’t as far as I am concerned—but THIS, yes, this, I can deal with.

Apparently, the above photo is from a 1995 issue of High Times.

(via KMFW )

Posted by Tara McGinley | Leave a comment
Carved face in apple bong
01.19.2012
03:09 pm

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Amusing
Drugs
Food

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Here’s a mildly entertaining DIY apple bong with a face carved on it. You’d probably have to use that sucker fast though, before oxygen turns it all brown.

Click here to see larger image.

(via reddit)

Posted by Tara McGinley | Leave a comment
Dream homes of alleged drug lords
01.19.2012
12:03 am

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Current Events
Drugs
Environment

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Today’s issue of The New York Times has a fascinating article on the interior design sensibilities of alleged Mexican drug lords.

Drugs, like oil, can produce piles of cash in a hurry. And in several Mexican cities, there are massive homes with domes that have an Arabian flourish. The desert mansion of Amado Carrillo Fuentes — a drug lord famous for transporting cocaine in jumbo jets, and for dying after botched plastic surgery in 1997 — has even been called the Palace of 1,001 Nights, after the book of Middle Eastern and South Asian stories that included Aladdin.

Conspicuous consumption, fueled by meth and coke profits and a strip club aesthetic, results in an El Narco world upholstered in fine Corinthian leather, animal prints, gaudy swaths of velveteen and automobiles in aspic.

What happens when the deal goes wrong and money can’t buy you out of some serious bad karma? These photos tell the tale. Graveyards of the Dope Gods.
 
 
 

 
More photos after the jump…

Posted by Marc Campbell | Leave a comment
Wake ‘N Bake: Coffee cup weed pipe
01.16.2012
11:26 am

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Amusing
Drugs

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Marijuana and coffee are two great tastes that taste great together. I can’t believe no one has thought of this design sooner, although, I can see some problems that might occur here, like burning your face off with scalding hot coffee. Stoners often aren’t the most aware bunch and this contraption might require a little concentration. I’d think a coffee bong might work better but that might make for a bitter brew…

FYI, I can’t find anywhere on the Internet where the coffee cup pipe is available for purchase.

You can purchase one at ZANG! for $39.99. Thanks, Matt!

(via THC Finder)

Posted by Tara McGinley | Leave a comment
Mystery mugshot: Cocaine psychosis or… what?
01.16.2012
09:44 am

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This has to be one of the most perplexing mugshots so far in 2012. Why you ask? Because there’s zero explaintion in the arresting report addressing the white substance all over Travis Williams’ face. Is he a zombie or does he work for Tony Montana?

From the Miami New Times:

Travis Williams (click photo to enlarge) was arrested on Wednesday for disorderly conduct/breach of the peace, which does not address the question as to why he’s covered in a white powder. (If the charge was trafficking exactly one skin-load of cocaine, that’d be another matter.) We got the arrest affidavit (below) from the Miami Police Department and it provided tantalizingly… little.

Williams was apparently at the Bayside Marketplace around noon, screaming at and trying to hit patrons, when cops rolled up. He allegedly got into a fighting stance and said: “Fuck you, motherfucker!”

The police officer who filled out the report clearly is the unflappable type. Let’s see, African-American ethnicity, 5-foot-9, 164 pounds, brown eyes, bald… and here’s the best part: Under “scars, tattoos, and unique physical features”, the officer wrote “None visible.”

I’m goin’ with the zombie theory?

(via UP)

Posted by Tara McGinley | Leave a comment
‘What Do You Do?’: How to subvert the fake edginess of today’s advertising
01.13.2012
03:23 pm

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Advertising
Amusing
Drugs
Pop Culture
U.S.A.!!!

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What do you do?
 
If you’ve ever been exposed to any of the unbearable bunch of slick miscreants that comprise the mainstream marketing industry, you know two things about them—they think they’re extremely clever and they like to high-five. And you can just almost hear those proverbial high-fives in the background of the groan-worthy paen to supposed non-conformity that is the latest Chevy Silverado commercial.

The original spot features an everyman Silverado owner pondering the metaphysical implications of the admittedly greviously banal question “What do you do?”, meaning, of course, how do you make money? Problem is, that kind of dopey pondering is now as banal as the question itself.

Blogger Flowbear breaks it down:

Ok, so ultimately the message the commercial is trying to convey is the ol’ ‘Merkin corporate standby, “If you buy our product you’re a rugged individual who, like Thoreau, cannot be bound up by definitions or constrained by the strictures of society. And like Whitman, you contain multitudes. You’re not like everybody else, everybody else being sheep and ciphers.” In this, the commercial is only as egregiously awful as just about every other commercial ever made. It becomes uniquely terrible in trying to be specific about the unique multiplicity of the asshole—our hero—in question.

Thankfully the Goatsilk arts crew in Missoula, MT have struck back with a spoof that takes a nice, direct jab at the pretense. Check it out:
 

 

Posted by Ron Nachmann | Leave a comment
Paula Deen to hawk diabetes medication?
01.13.2012
11:12 am

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Drugs
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Paula Deen is one of those people who, when life gives her lemons, she makes a lemon pie with ham and two sticks of butter.

Apparently Deen has Type 2 diabetes. The rumor going around today is that the saucy Southern TV chef—well known for her high calorie, high fat foods—has signed a multimillion-dollar endorsement deal with Novartis, the big pharmaceutical company.

Surely she can’t continue to preach the gospel of deep-fried Doritos pies and Twinkies-stuffed Thanksgiving turkeys working as the spokesperson for a diabetes medication or will Deen re-brand herself and start showcasing newer healthier recipes more in tune with the basic tenants of nutrition (and common sense)?

Deen has faced withering criticism for the high amounts of fat, salt and sugar in her dishes. When Deen’s cookbook for kids, “Lunch-Box Set,” was published in 2009, Barbara Walters asked her, “You tell kids to have cheesecake for breakfast. You tell them to have chocolate cake and meatloaf for lunch. And french fries. Doesn’t it bother you that you’re adding to this?”

Last August, “No Reservations” host Anthony Bourdain called Deen “the worst, most dangerous person to America” and said she should “think twice before telling an already obese nation that it’s OK to eat food that is killing us.”

Below, the celebrity chef gets hit in the face with a frozen ham:
 

 
Via The Daily What

Posted by Richard Metzger | Leave a comment
Ed Sanders’ brain-groping memoir is a real mindfugger


 
One of the defining moments of my life was when I picked up the debut album by The Fugs in a People’s Drug Store in Falls Church, Virginia in 1966. And when I say “picked up” that’s exactly what I mean. I didn’t even have to listen to it. All it took was picking up the album and looking at the cover to have my 15-year-old mind scrambled forever. A grainy black and white photograph of five scruffy-looking hippies holding musical instruments standing among rubble in front of an ancient looking brick wall somewhere in NY City’s East Village was not your usual teenybopper rock and roll imagery. If parents didn’t want their daughters to marry a Rolling Stone, they wouldn’t want them within 20 square miles of a Fug. This was punk rock in beatnik drag. Ten years later The Ramones would release their first album with a similarly New Yorkish cover. I stared at The Fugs with the awe of a kid coming upon a creature from outer space.

Of course, I bought the record (along with a copy of the first Mothers Of Invention album, Freak Out) and went home and eagerly put it on the turntable. The rest, as they say, is history. The Fugs were the hippest thing I’d yet encountered on vinyl. Their mix of the sacred and the profane, poetry and street talk, beauty and coarseness, was intellectual and spiritual manna for my hungry teenage brain and heart.

I wanted to be a part of whatever world The Fugs existed in so I ended up taking a bus to New York City and immediately went to The Fugs’ co-founder Ed Sanders’ bookstore, Peace Eye. There I began my serious Beat education, thumbing through the pages of books by Michael McClure, Alexandra David-Neel, Ginsberg, Burroughs, Kerouac, the whole underground scene…and it was still relatively underground at the time.

(While writing this I’m listening to the hugely underrated Fugs’ psychedelic/folk-rock masterpiece It Crawled Into My Hand, Honest .)

As much of a Fugs fan as I was, what eventually really knocked me out was Ed Sanders’ prose and poetry. He had a Whitmanesque/Blakean vision and bardic style coupled with gutter humor that bridged the heavens above and the mud below. He could undercut literary pretense with the foul-mouthed rants of a heavy-maned hillbilly cranked up on a ten dollar bag of crystal meth. His beatnik/hippie sensibilities were the foil to his truckstop cowboy skepticism. In other words, Sanders knew how to yin his yang, keeping the whole beautiful cosmic mess balanced between words of worship and the laughter on the tongue of a drunken whore. Within his howling vowels and clanging consonants, Sanders located that strange geography where the mythic mingles with tabloid headlines and TV commercials, where Jimmie Rodgers knocks back cheap bourbon while staring at the reflections of Isis and Ra in the bottom of his shot glass.

Drink up oh mighty yodellers and scribblers who praise the Dharma. The truth that envelopes us all and sends us squealing like delirious pigs into the arms of unbearable bliss is upon us like an ambergris-scented robe made of the pubic hair of two thousand and twelve Aztec virgins. Get naked, now! Or get the fuck out!

Yes, Ed Sanders was my guru of the gobble grope, my slum God of the Lower East Side, the dopethrill psychopath who pointed the way to a place where there is no shame in the flesh, the fuck or the flame that ignites the holy sacraments of the good lord Ganja. With Sanders as my shamanic guide I became a full-fledged member of the skin flower army, bravely facing the future with my hair flapping in the wind, a flag made of a million love tendrils.

That was then, this is now. And it is with great pleasure that I share with you good news indeed. The almighty Fug and editor of “Fuck You: A Magazine of The Arts,” has published a new memoir, Fug You, that covers his early days as a peacenik, poet, rabble rouser and musician in New York during the Sixties. It’s a great read full of fascinating anecdotes, essential counter-culture history, downtown bohemia, wrangles with the law, appearances by hundreds (yes, hundreds) of Sixties’ icons including Jimi Hendrix, Andy Warhol, Frank Zappa, Kenneth Anger, The Velvet Underground and tons of photos, images and manuscripts from his archives.

Unlike many a chronicler of those stoned days, Sanders has kept his wits about him. This isn’t a wobbly sentimental journey. The writing is sharp, witty and full of precise detail and facts. Of course, who would expect less of the author responsible for one of the best (and darkest) non-fiction books on the Aquarian Age, The Family. Sanders has always shown an abiding respect for form and tradition, even when fucking with them. Fug You is not only a personal history, it is history in the big sense. It is one of the few books that deals with the hippies and the counter-culture from the inside that doesn’t read like an amnesiac trying to reconstruct a past life or a brain-addled Deadhead recalling the time he caught the clap in a crash pad in the Haight as he desperately tries to keep his drool cup from toppling off his beer gut. Or worse, those guilt-ridden confessionals by former junkies who used to play in hair bands. Sanders doesn’t sound like an old fart spinning tales or pathetically trying to revive the good old days.

What kept Sanders interesting from the very beginning is still very much in operation in this new book: the clarity of his bullshit detector and his irreverent take on virtually everything, including himself. Which is not to say he doesn’t care about things in a deep sense, he does. He just approaches life with a Zen perspective knowing that getting overamped over shit ain’t gonna change a thing. He continues to be a revolutionary with a sense of the ridiculous. His strategy has always been to see the absurdity in the horror show and to shine a cosmic light on it. We see the Fug and Abbie Hoffman style of revolutionary theater echoed in today’s Occupy Movement. When The Fugs went to Virginia to levitate the Pentagon in 1967 not everybody was laughing, but they were certainly paying attention.

“You ask about my philosophy, baby, yeah? Dope, peace, magic gods in the tree trunks, and GROUP GROPE, BABY!”

The book ends in 1970, so I’m hoping this is the first in a series. More than four decades after I first encountered him, Sanders is still manna for my hungry brain.

Fug You: An Informal History of the Peace Eye Bookstore, the Fuck You Press, the Fugs, and Counterculture in the Lower East Side
is available here.

Here’s a little video mashup of some vintage film footage with selections from Sanders’ ode to rednecks, hippies and the trailer parks of absolute reality, Sanders’ Truckstop.

1. “Jimmy Joe, The Hippybilly Boy”   2. “Maple Court Tragedy”     3. “Heartbreak Crash Pad”     4. “Banshee”     5. “Plaster Song”     6. “Iliad”
 

Posted by Marc Campbell | Leave a comment
Crazy Diamond: The Pink Floyd and Syd Barrett Story
01.05.2012
04:15 pm

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Drugs
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syd_barrett_sixties
 
In his essential book of collected rock music essays and profiles, The Dark Stuff, writer Nick Kent recounts how famed psychiatrist, R. D. Laing watched an interview tape of Pink Floyd’s genius and drug-addled leader, Syd Barrett and claimed the singer was incurable. Not long after, Kent saw the evidence for himself:

Less than five years earlier, I’d stood transfixed, watching [Syd] in all his retina scorching, dandified splendor as he’d performed with his group the Pink Floyd, silently praying that one day I might be just like him. Now, as he stood before me with his haunted eyes and fractured countenance, I was having second thoughts. I asked him about his current musical project (a short-lived trio called Stars…) as his eyes burned a hole through one of the four walls surrounding us with a stare so ominous it could strip the paint off the bonnet of a brand new car. ‘I had eggs and bacon for breakfast,’ he then intoned solemnly, as if reciting a distantly remembered mantra. I repeated my original question. ‘I’m sorry! I don’t speak French,’ he finally replied.

Perhaps Barrett just wanted to avoid the dandified Kent. Then again, when Kent “rubbed up against the likes of Syd Barrett” he astutley realized:

...these were people who’d gotten what they actually wanted, only to find out it was the last thing on earth they actually needed…

This isn’t to dismiss Barrett’s immense talent or achievements - for one, he took an average band and turned them into something quite incredible. And his importance was such that when he left, his bandmates went on to make music inspired by his absence.

The Pink Floyd and Syd Barrett Story was originally screened in 2001, as part of the BBC’s Omnibus strand as Syd Barrett - Crazy Diamond. The documentary gives a fascinating portrait of Barrett’s brilliant rise and tragic fall through a drug-induced breakdown. Contributions come from Roger Waters, Nick Mason, David Gilmour, artist Duggie Fields (who describes sharing an apartment with the Crazy Diamond), Robyn Hitchcock, and, of course, archive of Syd Barrett - who, incidentally, watched the doc, when it was first broadcast and enjoyed seeing the archive, though found the music “too loud”.
 

 

Posted by Paul Gallagher | Leave a comment
A fascinating documentary on the production of Moroccan hashish
01.04.2012
10:31 pm

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Drugs
History
Movies

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Daniel Grabner’s 2003 documentary Haschich is a fascinating look into the world of hashish artisans living in Ketama, Morocco.

Simple yet filled with detail, the film reveals the daily rituals revolving around the production and business of hash and the centuries-old society of the men who make it. For many of us, hashish evokes a certain exotic mystique, but Grabner’s film shows us that the production of hashish is as ordinary as the work clothes worn by its producers. The end result may be something sought out by connoisseurs of mind-altering smoke willing to spend hundreds of dollars on a finger-sized chunk of Moroccan Caramello, but the process of its creation is far less romantic than the dreams that smoke will generate.  

Beautifully photographed and with a lovely soundtrack of traditional Moroccan music, Haschich is so intimate that you can practically smell and taste the sweetness of its subject.
 

 

Posted by Marc Campbell | Leave a comment
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