There is something quixotically quaint about this druggie tale from two heads of the psychedelic intelligentsia. Quaint like a mustachioed man enjoying a golden shower in a Victorian daguerreotype is quaint. Quaint like an octogenarian hell's angel brandishing a baseball bat is quaint. Quaint like all that which is swept off the contemporary plane into that space known as the past, where the power of danger no longer lasts, nor lingers anymore, is quaint. Or perhaps not. Perhaps this post was spiked.
(Found in the fascinating third issue of New World Disorder)