I'm writing this... I think it's midnight. I keep dipping in and out of coherence.
The first thing I did this morning, or yesterday morning, whatever morning this wild holiday started, I weighed myself. Once, long ago, when dinosaurs roamed the freeways and cavemen carpooled to work, I heard that the only way you could overdose on marijuana is if you smoked your weight in it. Being a lazy, indulgent slob (aka an American), I'm comin' in at a sturdy one-eighty. That's... roughly thirty-six thousand dollars worth of pot. A year's salary for Joe Paper Pusher, one dead prize-winning race horse for Jack "The Beastmaster" Zodiac. At eight in the morning, I had one hundred and eighty pounds of marijuana. I woke up early.
Somewhere between nine and noon, I'd made my way to an Indian casino. And when I say "Indian," I mean "Native American," but when I call it a "Native American Casino," they get offended. Normally, I wouldn't give a steaming shit if I offended somebody, but it was a holiday, and I was in a good mood. Pounds of weed'll do that to ya'. I spent about an hour counting cards, waiting for security to nab me and drag me down some seedy hallway to the big guy's office. Never happened. No, instead, the big guy comes right to me. That's class. Vegas, you fucks could take a note from these folk.
His name was Boss Double Down, which sounds like a thrown-out Bond villain, but fuck my dead dog's corpse if it ain't true. And in a stereotypically deep, monotonous voice, he asked me why I was "deceiving Fate." No shit. Not "cheating," or even "conning," but "deceiving Fate." And I responded in my gravelly, dragon-throated voice that it wasn't anything as abstract or transcendental as "Fate" that got me to his office, but cold, calculating guile. He was the man I wanted to see, the man capable of getting me what I wanted. Desert emeralds. The Divine Cacti. Peyote. I'd swindled his operation out of thousands for a mind-altering hallucinogen... and he was okay with it!
He said he'd give me what I wanted, take me where I wanted to go, be my guide, for my winnings. Fifteen minutes later, we were tearing off into the desert in a '69 Pontiac GTO with a glove compartment full of heroin, cocaine, and blotter acid with little pictures of nuns masturbating and a trunk filled with roughly one hundred and thirty pounds of marijuana. One of the conditions of what he was calling our "spirit journey" was that I had to drive, which was ridiculously awkward. There I was, tearing across an endless desert with a needle jutting out of my neck and a face full of white dust driving someone else's car! Awkward. Meanwhile, Double Down was triple-upped. The fucker'd been holding out on me with meth.
Along the way, I inquired about his tribe. He belonged to the Tlingit tribe, but lost his ties. He was pretending to be Navajo or something, like anyone would inquire anymore, to run his business. The Tlingit, pronounced "clinket," had adopted Christianity, and that just didn't jive with ol' Double Down. Where others saw Jesus guiding them through life, Double Down saw Yiel Shan, the wise old raven. Where others found strength in God, he found strength in Kinstaadal, the great brother bear. It was around this time I noticed the silver tower, jamming out of the sky like some cosmic kickstand, or the moon's cock.
We stopped. Double Down approached the sheer silver pole. I was cramming as many narcotics, hallucinogens, and amphetamines into a duffle bag as inhumanly possible. After jamming a fist full of peyote down my throat, we stumbled right through this metallic cord seperating Earth from Heaven, for Heaven it truly was. Inside the silver spire, a huge man covered in eagle's feathers sat on a throne made of half the sun and half the moon with all the stars above, below, and around him; and in a voice that was thunder, he delivered his sermon unto us.
He was Tahit, the Tlingit god of fate. Perched on his right shoulder was Yiel Shan, the wise old raven, and sitting to the left of his throne was Kinstaadal, the great brother bear. I was in deep, man. Crazy deep. It was all over me, and I fuckin' loved it! Overhead, the sky of Heaven shattered like glass, and Double Down started cupping his hands as it rained silver into them. I drank myself towards enlightenment, drowning myself in the moon's tears, when Tahit handed me a wooden goblet filled with fire. I ate the sun, and it burned its way into my heart. We fed the bear entire sheets of acid and gave the wise old raven shotguns of pot smoke. It was beautiful. So beautiful, I blacked out.
I awoke several hours later, several hours ago. It's... almost four in the morning now. I've been drifting in and out recounting my heroic journey today. The smoke, the dope, the mountain of coke, wallpaper of blotter acid, and fistfuls of peyote are all gone, but the memories are still here. And thanks to the Internet, they'll be here longer than me! I reached nirvana at some point today, probably right before I blacked out. For one night in the desert, I drank the moon's tears, tasted the sun's heart, achieved a profound sense of enlightenment, and got seven kinds of fucked up with a bear and a bird. And despite all of this wonder and beauty... I committed several felonies tonight.
A lot of people who could really use it are missing out on some amazing experiences. I hope you all enjoyed your day, too.