#ayahuasca bar

[korkiekenobiconfirmed]

team black’s in shambles rn and I’m having the time of my life. rhaenyra’s suddenly anti-war to the point where she’s willing to do religious roleplay with her ex gf just to avoid it and daemon’s tweaking off ayahuasca in the scooby doo castle. meanwhile jacaela are gnawing at the bars of their enclosure just DYING to make their house words a reality except that he’s a mama’s boy first and foremost.

also their last braincell just went down with her dragon. rip to two iconic queens

[powderblueblood]

I'm sorry. Eddie's 15 year old WHAT now???? 🤯🤯

HAHA YEP! YEP!

things happen when you're 21.

and sometimes things are self-described spiritual iconoclasts like mary lee oliver, the professional groupie. eddie met her at an iron maiden gig in chicago, where she told him he had an incredible aura and then said these fated words...

"do you wanna come backstage?"

basically, what you need to understand is that franklin oliver munson was conceived on an iron maiden tour bus, which sounds cool in theory, so eddie's going to keep speaking about it in theory.

but the fact of the matter is, mary lee disappeared off the face of the earth after that night. until about three years later, when eddie had settled in indianapolis working a shitty job at a dive bar that catered to the college student crowd. he got a phone call from mary lee (who had saved his forest hills number, who had been redirected to his current number by wayne) telling him that she'd be passing through town and did he want to meet his son?

just. like. that. casual as a breeze. do you wanna meet your son? we could get some chinese food or something.

mary lee, just as breezy, batted eddie's pleading to help out with kid with a single hand. she wore this crazy expression as she watched him, who'd help create this little lump of coal with the crazy big brown eyes that eddie carried like a genetic curse. like she didn't really care one way or the other.

"i don't really care, one way or the other," she, in fact, said. "i just felt like... the universe was giving me purpose with this little guy, you know? and you, like, don't really have to be part of that if you don't want to? and i think maybe you shouldn't?"

eddie stopped cooing at the kid, which she'd coincidentally called franklin (his mom's maiden name, any of you guys looking for extra credit), for a half a second. "why not?"

"well, you're a little square, eddie."

square, according to mary lee, included wanting to try and forge a relationship with his son, even if they did live in different states-- eddie, still in indiana and mary lee and franklin, wherever the next tour bus took them.

apparently, franklin's formative years were spent at an ayahuasca retreat that mary lee's boyfriend ran. eddie had, again, pleaded that she just keep in contact so he could see how this kid grew up. and also, "anything you need, anything at all, i need you to let me know. okay? there's nothing i won't do for this little guy, mary lee, i swear."

a couple of sporadic letters came through over the years. a phonecall or two when franklin finally got to grips with forming full sentences, but he always sounded distant and confused whenever eddie spoke to him--because eddie was a ghost. he would have bet that his own son couldn't pick him out of a lineup. eddie never meant for it to be that way. he kept asking mary lee, and later frankie, "so when are you comin' out my way?"

"we don't know, eddie. midwest's a little... well, midwest."

but he'd have flown to wherever that kid needed him, if he asked. and if he had the cash.

fast forward to the cresting finality of 1999.

eddie munson's planning on a wedding.

or, okay, thinking about it. thinking about proposing to lacy doevski finally, for real this time, as it seems they've finally stopped digging out the shrapnel of their pasts from their tender flesh and all that.

in a dilapidated house by a lake, there's a bang on the door at three in the morning. he hears a hammer cock before he even feels lacy uncurl from around him.

"wait, hol' on-- don't get hasty with that thing."

"that's what it's for."

"could be a raccoon or som'n'..."

"in your dreams..."

eddie leans out their bedroom window to see a mop of curly, dark hair atop a lanky frame. identical dark eyes stare up at him from the front step.

"shit. i'd apologize for the unsociable hour, but you don't seem to know how to answer your fuckin' phone, dad."

[honeyvenommusic]

SCREAMING & CRYING & THROWING UP WE’RE GETTING ANDRÉ 3000’S FIRST ALBUM IN 17 YEARS IN 3. DAYS.!!!

[mywifeleftme]

195: Run the Jewels // Run the Jewels

Run the Jewels Run the Jewels 2013, Fool's Gold

Even as someone who was very hyped for this monster mash album to drop back in 2013, I could’ve used El-P and Killer Mike’s chances at becoming mainstream music stars as a creative simile for extreme remoteness. Run the Jewels started life as a Watch the Throne joke—e.g. while you pay obeisance to the supposed kings, we’re behind them jacking their shit. The name seemed right: any time you put Mike on a pop-adjacent track, he sounded too brash, too angry to fit the scheme, whereas El-P probably scanned to most listeners as like, Comic-Con Bubba Sparxxx or something. It remains bizarre to contemplate that El-P’s original crew, Company Flow, released their groundbreaking Funcrusher EP a year before Jay-Z’s Reasonable Doubt, and Mike had been OutKast’s war dog since the turn of the century. In other words, these were two rapper’s rappers who made a living on rhymes but didn’t seem likely to have say great prospects of retiring comfortably.

It just goes to show what a creative release strategy (Run the Jewels dropped for free at a time when that concept still had some novelty) and an absolute banger record can do for ya. After years of ambitious, CD-stuffing projects by both men, Run the Jewels is a trim 33-minute object lesson in the power of elite shit-talking. Ten years on their particular chemistry is fixed enough to be fondly roasted, but at the time I’d never heard either man rap as freely, or hilariously, as they did here. Some particularly treasured bars:

Woo, they done let that fuckin' Mike out It's like Tyson in the '80s Nigga snap and punch your lights out, yeah It's like Tyson in the '90s, if I'm losing, take a bite out I'm so motherfuckin' grimy, so motherfuckin' greedy, gritty Mama said she couldn't breastfeed 'cause I was bitin' at the titty — Mike

Yo, Killer Mike and El-P, fuck boys, think about it Fuck you gonna sell me? You don't know a thing about us Women dosed with ayahuasca drum circle and sing about us Dolphins prone to rape'll hear the tape and stop to think about it Monks will immolate themselves until the record hits the shelves Yetis walk right out the woods to cop it without thinkin' bout it Workers at the sweatshop kill they boss to how the vets drop Worker ants surround their queen and chew the bitch's head off Drug dogs bark at the tour bus when it park Priests take the cock out of their mouths To hum along when the chorus drop — El-P

It's time for Skywalker talkers t’meet the true Darth Vader I hit your mom in '03, but a G ain't ate her So baby boy, you should tighten up and show some respect Before I Melvin on you, Jody, put my arm on your neck Or worse yet, be the reason your girl want a divorce Be at her crib with your kids saying ‘Fuck your fort, lil' nigga!’ — Mike

Born to the next-gen system Slow water drip to the temple to live in a prison When the walls don't appear to your vision One floor down from that mall's that prison Where shower stalls'll get all y'all missin' Pardon me, I got half-wit vision But fuck I know? I just crawled here, cap'n — El-P

I'm fat but I dress nice, and bitches finesse Mike They suck the dick and squeeze on my belly like bagpipes — Mike

I'ma smoke 'til the planet erases Build a white flag out of Zig Zags, wave it — El-P

And so on. Alongside El-P’s signature production, limber and consistently knocking, it is the sheer “What will they say next?” pleasure of two elite battle rappers trading the mic back and forth (something that doesn’t happen on Watch the Throne as often as you might remember) that scratched the deep itch of boom-bap-bro nation. Over three more excellent LPs to date, they’ve expanded their sound and skewed ever more topical, but RTJ have never abandoned the template that made them unlikely stars. And for my money at least, it’s this first one that best stands the test of time.

195/365

[hoecogan]

i've been wasting lots of time lately thinking about how different things would be without the various horrifying assaults i've suffered at the hands of men. in the same way that some schools of feminism categorize all penetrative intercourse as rape, is all time as a little girl spent in the hands of men some soft form of assault? of course, barring when it's not blatantly assault. being abused as young as a toddler, quasi-repressing it but - - in the way that - -

you're an artist and a woman, just too honest or whatever that magic is that makes you good at making things but also makes people hate you, in that way - it just kind of lives through you, the abuse, or has in spite of you, some darkness, some horrible truth about humanity simply because a man couldn't stop getting intoxicated and had to perpetuate trauma

you wonder about the church in the same way that you wonder about your grandfather, where something might have happened, where everything might have started.

there would be political conversations, in the living room, and it was quite obvious that jack was the king. and jack was right, of course, and there was simply no arguing with that. like all republicans, jack has flawed data, dramatic masculine ideologies, and a background in law enforcement at the highest levels all with which to prove his correctness. jack is an accomplished man. j edgar hoover wrote letters congratulating jack on the birth of all 3 of his sons. joan's liberal voting record - her love of liberal candidates and their rhetoric - it was to be laughed off as frivolous, overly compassionate, saccharine -- jack's generation didn't use words like libtard but of course they felt the cruelty of those words in their hearts for their beautiful stupid wives, whom they also loved, but they did not need therapy, because they were men, and nothing was wrong with them.

your father, giving you a boilerplate Life Isn't Fair speech, spoke about how he'd had a paper route, and he'd be out for hours, and no one would tip him, and don would jump in on the last leg to help him and get all kinds of tips. later you thought about this, how don must have appeared very precocious. this sticks out among other vague details, memories of the house in omaha in some kind of fog, especially certain rooms and how the hallway felt

how did it all come to be?

you were in santorini, ok well -

you were in petra. you're in love and you meet his friends, who barely speak english, and their children, who barely speak at all, 3 and 4. the son named for your bf, the son sharing your birthday, the daughter quite possibly the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, and you - you're some strange captivating alien to these children, they're all over you the entire weekend. it's overwhelming how utterly fascinated and in love they are with you, just throwing their energy completely at you, the sheer vulnerability of it, the openness. it's lovely but something about it is draining and deeply painful.

later you're on the ferry. you're pissed at dimitri because he hadn't told you anything about the children, or that you'd be staying at his friend's house (in their bedroom! they slept on their own couch! working class people! you could KILL him), and worse - you saw some girl sending him messages on some app while you guys were drunk at the beach so you barely slept. you're exhausted. you have your first dream about omaha on the ferry. you get up in santorini and you feel sick, you pass it off as seasickness. it's raining in santorini which is unusual. you're still so mad at dimitri, so exhausted and confused by the dream that you pass out again once they check you into the villa, which is beautiful, but dimitri is displeased by the layout and being a little bitch about it. you have another dream about omaha. the dreams both start - or turn - by evoking that 2019 ayahuasca ceremony you were at that told you about your abuse - and then they take you deeper into the feelings, the words your abuser spoke to you, drunkenly, angrily.

you wake up feeling very disgusted again, you're already processing this with your conscious mind on some level, but all the international travel, the instability in your relationship, the culture shock and language gaps while he's SO at home in europe, his arrogance and comfort are skyrocketing. you feel more annoyed, alone, and objectified with him than ever. he speaks greek very confidently to to other greek men and you wonder what he says. he switches to english for all other international people, and mirrors their level of skill. to one welsh man he says "the girl, she's from chicago" gesturing to you, as though he's speaking a language you can't understand. "the girl"? excuse me bitch? you feel particularly objectified in that instance, some welsh guy looking at you and smiling.

so you wake up from dream 2. nauseous and he's pissed you don't want to eat dinner. all you want is wine and chocolate. he and a group of greek waiters at some magical seaside place wind up collectively charming you into one of the best meals of your life. he orders egregious amounts of seafood and wine and tips too much. it's annoying you how much money he's been spending all summer. especially on the islands. you know he's spending outside his means and it's upsetting you but you're not saying anything about it. he knows you're still pissed about the DMs, he's pouring on the charm, all the usual crap about your eyes, and your posture, and how you're too good for him, he doesn't deserve you, you're so smart, you're so cute, and it's working of course, but the dreams still have you by the psyche and you don't want to have sex, possibly with anyone, ever again. but you love dimitri. but it's - dimitri. he's a man before he's anything else to you, and this - well, you couldn't possibly tell him what you're going through. and he's persistent about sex, so you're participating while completely checked out, and he lacks the communication skills to do anything about this but pout, and you offer that you realize you're distant and it isn't him, and the next month becomes nothing but traveling and living on some bizarre dilapidated rollercoaster that begins to fall apart mid-ride.

you feel like kissing the ground in chicago. he's instantly hideously depressed to've left greece, the arrogance he had strutting around europe has deflated into something foul. air portugal loses your luggage. his drone. all the expensive equipment you told him not to check. he throws a tantrum at ohare. an adult man. in public. at an international airport. can you imagine? you leave him, but you don't let yourself leave him fully, because then you'd be alone with what happened to you when you were little, though the reality is that you are.

and then you have the 3rd dream that inspires you to tell your therapist. when you wake up from this one you think you're still in europe. you can't remember what country, what part of daylight it is - but you're home, and he must have done this to you. and said that while he did it. it must have really happened. and honestly, of course it happened, because it lives in you, you carry it with you to everything, like the most familiar part of you.

but you still don't believe yourself, or the dreams, because maybe those beautiful greek fairy children just cast some spell on you? maybe it was the islands, islands are filled with spirits, and maybe you are misremembering.

you go back to the 2019 ayahausca ceremony. you were living with elliot that summer. the ceiling opened up and it took you to this little tiny version of you, who knew very well something horribly wrong had happened, saddened and electrified and different, - - - the brokenness of that little one - you remember her, and the words she shared with you that her abuser said to her

all you could do that summer was get fucked up, elliot remarked that you'd been disassociating. you joke about it. you smoke a lot and you're so sad for some reason. you don't know what the ceremony wanted you to see but you're pretty sure that you were molested. there's the word. the word you can hardly say, that puts a shudder down your spine. all you can do is drink and smoke, bombard yourself with sunlight, swim, drink, smoke, and you feel exactly like you felt when you were a teenager, but you're 33, and you're so fucking sad, because you were molested when you were only 3 or 4, and that's why everything's been so weird and dark for as long as you've been conscious, that's why you were so broken and that's why all the horrible sexual proclivities, and that's why all you could do was get fucked up all through high school, and you're so sad for that poor teenager who had no idea what was going on with her, who had thoroughly repressed the abuse and the screeching memories of it. you have a dark, embarrassing blackout memory of telling one person, one time, you said the word, you said "i was molested" and you weren't sure why or where it came from, it's like you were admitting it to yourself. you were so drunk.

you see the pattern that it's caused and how you have to acknowledge and work on it - and heal it and own it - like some flaw, even though it was perpetrated onto you. isn't that being a woman? somebody get matt walsh bitch! i know what a woman is! so perhaps he was right, your abuser, when he made his disgusting comment, stuck in your psyche from age 3 about "what girls are for"

[e-a-noe-henry]

tip the scales opioid constipated . . . they're the cocaine debilitated mom is busy packing for her ayahuasca retreat by many they are celebrated time we accept defeat thousand of drunk driving deaths in the land of car stereo thefts lets do the switcheroo back to when the hipsters regularly visit the dens now leaving the bar without incident can get you a life in the pen ok we got it wrong this iz where chuck bangs his big ass gong starting the rewrite of a world gone wrong taken over by the cartels who deal in real blood and a real loss of life but i do see people catching on any confidence in authority brother is long gone so , either we make a move or cue up this once great nations swan song e. a. noe henry

[thirtysevenodddogs]

In 2018 I took a lil' trip to Whistler to see my cousin complete his last IronMan ever.

On the first leg of my trip, I spent 3 days in Vancouver on my own, and I was fortunate enough to stay in one of the coolest places I've ever been to. 11 Jazz musicians that I had never met in my life took me in. I slept on an old worn pull-out couch, and on the floor, and took a shower under an insanely cold spray of water.

Jazz house. I spent 2 nights there, met people from all over the world, attended a tobacco and ayahuasca ceremony led by an Ecuadorian shaman, and went to my first ever "High bar", which was basically just an open floor room with weed vapor constantly pumping, I took a hit from a stranger's bong and one of the guys spent the next moments (I honestly don't know how long it was, I was sooooo HIGH) holding my hand, giving me water, and walking me to the bathroom to pee XD.

I said goodbye to the house and its lovely inhabitants with this poem.

A day later at almost 12 am, I met my family at the airport to continue on our trip, my aunt, my cousin and my 5-year-old nice had rented a car that we would drive to our Whistler Air b&b. Except the car never arrived at the pick-up spot. So after some frantic text messages, at 1 am, these wonderful men, took me in again. Only this time they gave us a bedroom and 2 beds, and even a plush toy for my niece to sleep with.

I came across these photos and the poem which I had forgotten about today and all the beautiful memories of that place came rushing back.

So lovely. Wherever they are now, I hope they are well.

[marblery]

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When it comes to psychedelic chocolate bars, there are various types available, each offering different effects and experiences. Here are some of the most popular varieties:

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2. LSD-Infused Chocolate Bars: Although less common now, LSD-infused chocolate bars were popular during the 1960s and 70s. LSD, or lysergic acid diethylamide, is a powerful hallucinogen known for its profound effects on perception, mood, and cognition.

3. Ayahuasca-Inspired Chocolate Bars: Ayahuasca is a traditional psychedelic brew made from the Banisteriopsis caapi vine and other plants. Some chocolatiers have created chocolate bars inspired by the unique flavors and effects of the Ayahuasca experience.

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[william-scott77]

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[back-and-totheleft]

Acid on Bondi Beach

Academy Award-winning director Oliver Stone - the force behind Platoon, Natural Born Killers, Wall Street and many more - was talking to a packed audience at today’s Semi Permanent conference.

The director, who most recently helmed the film Snowden, and was responsible for Al Pacino’s many memorable coke scenes in Scarface, told the gathered crowd of an early memory involving Bondi Beach and a debut LSD tab.

'I took my first acid trip in Sydney on Bondi beach. I met a girl at the local whiskey go go [bar] and holed up in a room with her for a week. The MPs [he was on R&R post a tour of Vietnam as a serving soldier] had to drag me out. I didn't want to leave. Years later I was back in Sydney and a woman tapped me on the shoulder and told me she was my daughter. It took a few weeks to find out that she wasn't. Her mother had never told her who her father was and it was between me and another guy, a bad guy. But it didn't work out.'

Stone actively sought action in Vietnam, quitting college in order to enlist. After two tours of duty and a failed career as a stockbroker, he turned his hands to writing - first novels, then screenplays. And thankfully he did.

Now, with 3 Academy Awards to his name, the iconic director travels the globe to share the highs and lows of his career.

It’s known that Stone has used drugs as a creative outlet, opening up to The Hollywood Reporter in 2012 about the virtues of acid, weed and ecstasy.

“I’m like Willie Nelson,” he said in the 2012 piece. “I believe the grass is God’s gift. California makes the best in the world now. When I was a kid, it was Vietnamese, it was Thai, Jamaican for a while. All my life I’ve been doing it, off and on. I can stop marijuana. I can [go without it] for weeks and weeks. I’m not addicted, but I enjoy it. I also enjoy alcohol.”

As for heavy drugs: “Cocaine, I stay away from. But I believe in LSD, mescaline, mushrooms, ayahuasca. You ever heard of ayahuasca? It’s a very strong juice that comes from the rubber trees. Ecstasy is great, too.”

He has said that he wrote Scarface because his own cocaine addiction had affected his so deeply.

“Cocaine had screwed me so much,” Stone told The Sabotage Times in 2013. “It had taken so much of my money that now I needed to take my revenge and so I wrote [the film]. In the past, I’ve talked about Scarface as being a farewell love letter to cocaine, but it’s really me taking my revenge on the drug.”

-GQ Australia, May 27 2017 [x]

[psychedelicshopmall]

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[pluralplur]

so gd excited for the psilocybes to start growing in my area. i keep checking the sightings graph for the local species because they start showing up this month (very rarely though)

be gay do crime, amirite?