Notes From The Underground...

Back to the last night of the century. Between me being blessed with this not give a fuck attitude and psychosis of the DxM, I was certainly not in rational state of mind. With my battle cruiser tank severely wounded and my extreme want to go out and continue the quest of getting fucked up, I made an unorthodox choice. ---------------------------------omission----------------------------------------- Slipped out stealthily into the car and rolled out into the street and was on my way. I got out of town and drove swiftly through the back roads to my destination, Mike Mosar’s riverside apartment in Sea Bright.

Upon arrival, I’m greeted by some of the regulars who frequent there. Bull, Mark, Bud, Mike, his girlfriend Erin, and Bull’s girl Stacey. First things first, I needed some booze. I took out my Everclear kit which I used for getting numb drunk very fast like. It consisted of a pint of Everclear (95% alcohol), one packet of Kool-Aid, and a cup of sugar. I got a cup out of Mike’s cabinet and prepared my concoction. Now, how you do this is; you take the Kool-Aid, the sugar, about five shots of Everclear, enough water and ice to level off the cup, mix it all up real nice, and presto you’ve got one night’s worth of drinking in one twelve ounce Solo cup. One long sip on the cup, instant gratification. I nestled down into the snug of Mike’s white pleather couch. “So” says Bull. “How did you get down here, I thought the Impala was all wasted and shit.” “Well Bully my boy I’m riding in style tonight, go take a peek out that window over there.” Bull gets up and takes long strides through the kitchen and brushes the curtain aside. He looks back at me and explodes with laughter and exclaims “you’re fucking nuts man! …. Fuck.” Bull came back over and joined us on the couches again.

Mike’s living room was a cramped 10 x 15 room with a white stained carpet, scratched up white couches due to his white pit-bull Angel, a couple of turntables in one corner, a TV with video games in another, and glass table in the middle. Mike was standing over by his turntables, fooling around with them, playing whatever new crazy electronic music he just got and he turned to look at me and threw me a big bushy bag of weed and a dutchie and said “Yo, Xavier. Why don’t you roll us up a big fat dutch, and after that I gotta surprise for y’all.” “Sure thing man.” I snapped back. I swear this guy always had the best gear and lots of it. Breaking it up was a pain in the ass because there was so much resin on this stuff it stuck to your fingers. You had to use a scissor, and even then some of it stuck to the scissor. After I had it all chopped and diced real fine I slowly unrolled the outer leaf of the dutchie, cracked the inner leaf vertically down one side, licked the outer leaf with a soft gentle caress and I was ready to roll. First you roll the weed into the inner leaf like you would a blunt or a joint, then you take the wet outer leaf and twist it around your rolled inner leaf with a cigar like roll. Then you gotta dry it with a lighter or if you have the means about ten seconds in the microwave, because trust me there nothing shittier than a soggy dutchie. It was done. Ready to smoke. Put it in my mouth, raised the lighter to its tip and was about to spark it when Mike yelled from the other side of the room “No! No! No, no wait a second man, don’t light that yet I got something I wanna do with that. Come into the kitchen with me.”

I got up and followed Mike over to his refrigerator; he opened up the freezer portion of it and removed a small glass jar which looked like the one my probation officer used to give me for urine samples. “Is that juice?” I asked him. “No doubt. I scored this shit off Punk last weekend when me and Erin went to the Sympty party at the Wave. Dude this shit blew my fuckin’ head off, we smoked a dippy and I was retarded for hours, tripped my face off. It’s gotta be mad close to pure.” Mike took the dutch and dipped it in the juice and sucked it from the end sticking out so that the dust saturated every hidden orifice of this thing. We were in for quite a ride. He handed it back to me and proclaimed, “Now you can spark it.” We went back to our circle waiting on the couches. I lit it up and breathed in deeply, the resin of the gear and the dust sizzled sweetly into my lungs. Nothing like the combination of piney tasting kind bud and the minty, sharp, chemical taste of the dust. Hold in the smoke, let it become you. Exhale a blue cloud of euphoria, paranoia, and hallucinations into the heavy air of our white stained enclave.

Pass it around a few times let everyone get high, elevated, tripped out. The apartment is vibrating all around us, fuzzy with a technicolor dreamscape. Shit?!? Is that couch floating over there? Shapes melting, distorting, circles becoming ovals. Nothing is tangible. Welcome to the 4^th dimension. I gaze around the circle to seek out the expressions on the others faces, I see stupored demons and minions of the eternal night here in this hazy bubble, all is surreal now, and nothing is real. I get up and walk out through the sliding glass chrome trimmed doors into Mike’s backyard, a ten foot section of grass and dirt that leads to the wooden barrier between water and earth. The river is rough tonight, chopped out to the max. Tsunami waves pouring over, bombarding the dirt like a mini Hiroshima. It’s traversed halfway around the world just to approach my mind on the shores in New Jersey. Need to relax, reality no longer viable. Smoke a cigarette, calm yourself down. Maybe I can hide in the cigarette; they wouldn't dare follow me in there. Gotta shrink down first, get real small man. Ah, presto. Wow, this blade of grass is like an enormous evergreen tree, fuck me. Ok, let’s inject into the smoke. I proceed to push my way through these dark and light brown gigantic leaves of coarsely textured tobacco. I push my way in; and I am engaged, I surrender to the smell. When you shrink yourself like this the smell of the tiniest things becomes immense. As I walk through my tobacco sunburst jungle, I hack at these tobacco vines with this machete I'm carrying with me. Lightweight plastic handle, black razor sharp anodized blade, what a sweet, sweet tool for touring the jungle of Philip Morris. All of a sudden an unstoppable force is pulling me unmercifully deeper into the jungle. Blue smoke is pouring in from behind me chasing me farther in. I hit the wall. A soft wall made of strange synthetic fibers. Swoopth! I'm being pulled through, tiny asbestos like cords scratching my body apart. Thwack! I hit a slimy soft pink bed with a surface that feels like infinite Braille, it soothes my scratches. Ahhh..... Smoke pours in.... GAK! HAK! FAK! Suffocating; can't breathe. Puff...... I fly out into the wide open world. All is tranquil as I float safely onto a dew encrusted blade of grass. Let's re-enlarge now. I'm back, face to face with Mark. He's smoking one of my cigarettes and I say "Thanx for stealing my smokes, dick."

I'm starting to come down now, less transfixed on the paranoia and delusions, feeling better. I decide to go back inside and finish my turbocharged Everclear cocktail. "So what’s going on tonight?" I ask. Mike: "Staying here, dust got me flooooooored." Mark: “I gotta run up to the city and pick up some gear from 'the man'." Bull: "Me and Stacey are gonna go back up to Freehold, her friend went on vacation and asked her to housesit. Wanna roll?" Xavier: "Word." I throwback my drink, say my goodbyes and Bull, Stacey, and I were on our way. At this point the minds focused, yet my balance fucked up. I roar back over the bridge next to Mike's apartment complex.