I am a grown-ass adult, and I need my digital pacifier.
I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be bored. To do nothing. To stare into the void and daydream.
Instead, I reach for my pacifier. It’s always got something to distract me.
Hello family! I hope you are as well as can be right now.
I’m sending this to my family members who I’ve shared a table with at holidays, and danced to Motown music with post-dinner, and opened White Elephant Christmas gifts together, and known my entire life.
I know some of you may be planning to vote for Trump. I realize any email starting out with that sentence probably makes you not want to read the rest of what I have to say. I get it.
So, I will try to keep this email as much to the point as I can — and not about being a Republican or a Democrat. …
This is the story of the second time I smoked the venom of the Bufo-Alvarius toad. To read about my first experience, click here.
The impetus to retake the most powerful hallucinogen on Earth was two of my closest friends who’d observed changes in me after my first trip. They’d independently noticed that I’d seemed less anxious — less of what they referred to as “Little Phil” (the needy child in me sulking for attention or feeling sorry for myself when life doesn’t go my way) showing up socially.
I thought — well, bottom’s up! Here we go again!
We each signed up for a private session, but as things unfurled, we ended up overlapping at the healer’s apartment and got to watch each other’s experiences. This is my subjective take on what happened — with permission given by my two friends to share. …
I paid for the dream with six nightmares in a row in a haunted hotel in Reno.
Reno can be a sad place to return to after an ecstatic experience at Burning Man. The sunken faces of chain-smokers starring into the voids of glittery slot machines themed around magical animals, Ancient Gods, or just Lucky Number 7. Punctuated every now and then by a random alarm going off indicating one of the lost had scored a reprieve from the steady drip of pennies disappearing. In Vegas, I could imagine being swept up by the glitz and glamour of over-the-top heterosexual fantasy making gone bananas. The tuxedo-clad gamblers! The famous strip! The lights! The babes! Celine Dion! …
Note: This story is NOT safe for work or for those uncomfortable with graphic descriptions of male-on-male sex.
“Red blindfold or white blindfold?” asked the bouncer wearing assless chaps and a T-shirt with a logo of a horse’s ass above the name ‘Fickstutenmark.’ “Red means bareback is ok. White means condom only.” This was the second thing asked of me at The Horse Fair — the kinkiest, craziest, sexiest, scariest thing I have ever done in my life. The first question the bouncer asked me was, “Have you read the FAQ?”
Daniel Nardicio, the notorious gay nightclub promoter and self-titled king of sleaze, had told me about The Horse Fair when I mentioned I was going to Berlin. “It’s this insane party. You choose whether you will be a stallion or a mare,” he said in-between doing five other things at once. “If you’re a stallion, you walk around and fuck any mare you want. If you’re a mare, they put a blindfold on you and tie you up somewhere in the stable, and you’re fucked for hours by anonymous D. …
The trouble began in Bratislava.
Something in the Slovakian water? The hand-tossed salad I ate at the bus depot? Whatever the culprit, my stomach was queasy by the time my Flixbus pulled in to Prague Central Station on a Friday at 6:00 PM. I wrote it off as travel fatigue, a low-grade cold — something to push through and not slow down my itinerary. I had a whole city to see!
I went to the Airbnb I was sharing with a host named Anna.* We had agreed to meet up at 6:30 PM after I walked over from the train station. Anna was punctual, it seemed, as she could no longer meet up with me to show me the flat when I arrived fifteen minutes late at 6:45 PM — she had plans to get to. Instead, I picked up an intimidating key ring with six color-coded keys on it from a guy named Petr at the bar across the street, drawing looks from the Czech regulars as I hauled my American-size suitcase up and down the steps to the underground bar. …
This is the story of the first time I smoked the venom of the Bufo-Alvarius toad. To read the story of my second trip, click here.
My ears were ringing and I was rushing away from my body; I was losing control of myself; I was shouting the word “Surrender! Surrender! Surrender!” in my mind — but my mind was being shattered and flung into a nameless void that was infinitely dark and infinitely bright at the same time.
This was the onset of me smoking the crystalized venom of the Bufo Alvarius toad on the floor of a chic apartment on the Upper West side of NYC. Also known as the Sonoran Desert Toad, this little sucker secretes a venom containing 5-MeO-DMT (four–six times more potent then synthesized DMT). This chemical is the most powerful psychedelic known to man (it should be noted the toads are not harmed in the milking of the venom, and the venom is physically harmless to humans so long as it is vaporized). I had elected to blow my mind apart at the well-furnished home of a healer I’d met on my recent Ayahuasca experience. …
I participated in an Ayahuasca ceremony in NY with seven other middle-aged woman, one man straight out of the Big Lebowski, and a shaman born in Brooklyn who said the word “coffee” just like you’d imagine he does. I couldn’t wait to “Eat, Pray, and Blow My Mind Apart” with these questers.
The clientele at this shindig featured some of the kings and queens of East Coast psychedelics. One woman I dubbed the queen of the toad. The man was the king of the frog. They both extract a venom from a specific toad and frog and administer it therapeutically for mind-blowing, healing experiences. …
Want to watch this story performed live (AS A SONG?), click here:
For a time, I sublet a spare bedroom of mine in Brooklyn on Airbnb. I was a Superhost, which meant I sported a listing with great reviews and provided a quality stay in New York City. But, every success story is a product of surviving nightmares. Here are my three favorite Airbnb tales:
I was turning the big 30. I had the time of my life that night at my public birthday party. What’s a public birthday party? It’s the party I share on social media, set at a convenient bar, and open to anyone to attend. …