Tokin’ with Jesus

Last night was brain fever night. That’s my name for it. I don’t know if it’s a medical condition or not. A sudden attack of hallucinations and brain shudders. Like a bad trip on LSD.

I don’t know what brings it on, out of the blue, or rather out of the darkness of midnight. Unless it was the four gin and tonics, three beers and two brandies. But I’ve drunk that much before without a brain fever attack.

Maybe it was the Xanax at bedtime that went on a diabolical rage with the alcohol already streaming in my blood.

You can’t sleep. You lie in bed and ride it out like a storm in hell. Around four o’clock in the morning, the waking nightmare begins to abate. Finally you sleep, mainly from the exhaustion of the battle.

The doctor told me my liver was more like a die-r, and to knock off the booze. I don’t see how. Drinking is my last pleasure. Like smoking cigarettes and grass was to my wife. And when she fell ill and was told not to smoke, she still smoked.

And now she’s tokin’ with Jesus.

My wife was a believer, especially when she was high. I try to be, but I can’t get there. Jesus was always high. So were his disciples.

As Matthew relates (14:24): But the boat by this time was a long way from the land, beaten by the waves, for the wind was against them. And he [Jesus] came to them, walking on the sea. … So Peter got out of the boat and walked on the water and came to Jesus.

If you get high, man, you can do anything.

As the Grateful Dead’s Jerry Garcia said:

Brain fever night

Getting high on the Universe is cool and I can do that, but taking it a step further, maybe if you get high on Jesus, you end up getting high with Jesus.

I don’t know, man — just keep tokin’.

Back to the front page

Till death do us part

Living the High Life in the Dead Room

American Daze Purple Haze lived alone in a bungalow in Upstate New York with Memories of S. They woke up together, spent the day talking about their life of many years together, shared cocktail hour and went to bed together. This went on for two years.

As the months dragged on American Daze Purple Haze became more and more depressed. One morning he told Memories of S that he was going to look for an apartment in another state and try and rejoin society. Memories of S said that sounded like a good idea, time to move on and all that stuff.

She asked him what state he was moving to and he said New Hampshire because of the liberal gun laws as opposed to New York where you can’t buy a gun to save your life and Memories of S said, I hate guns. Why do you want a gun?

The revolution, said American Daze Purple Haze. Live Free or Die and all that.

Memories of S said straight out, I think you want a gun so you can shoot me

Are you insane! said American Daze Purple Haze, I would never shoot you, I will love you forever and be with you forever.

Well, let’s not get carried away, said Memories of S. She was not the sentimental type, always practical and down to earth. American Daze Purple Haze was the sentimental one, a dreamer and a romantic.

And then Memories of S asked, Are you going to shoot yourself?

Well, since you mention it, I suppose, said American Daze Purple Haze, when I feel the time is right.

It works out the same, said Memories of S, if you shoot yourself you also kill me, and you said you would never do that.

Hmmm, said American Daze Purple Haze, you always were the logical one.

So what are you going to do, Socrates? asked Memories of S.

American Daze Purple Haze said, Just stay here, I guess, and not buy a gun.

To hell with the revolution, said Memories of S. Look, it’s five o’clock, how about you fix us a couple of cocktails and roll a joint and I’ll meet you in the living room.

You mean the dead room.


American Daze Purple Haze made the drinks and rolled a joint and got back on the not-so-merry merry-go-round.

That is one sad merry-go-round. There’s no one on it.

Back to the front page