December 13, 2004

Money don't get me down but I can't make it last

* Americablog says: Michael Powell seriously needs to get laid. And then fired.

* Tommy Chong to star in The Marijuana-Logues. excerpt:

"Thomas B. Kin Chong is full of surprises. For one thing, he's soft-spoken and articulate — nothing at all like the character he's played in films, nightclubs and on television and comedy albums for more than 30 years.

"Chong was never charged with marijuana possession because the agents who arrested him were looking for smoking materials made by Nice Dreams, a company named for one of his Cheech and Chong films, and had not included marijuana in the search warrant. He ended up serving nine months after pleading guilty to conspiring to sell drug paraphernalia.

"He maintains that what authorities say were bongs and water pipes actually were examples of the fine blown-glass art he has exhibited over the years. He says he agreed to plead guilty to spare his son Paris, who ran Nice Dreams, any legal troubles."
...
"Chong says it wasn't hard to give up marijuana because it's not physically addictive. In any event, he says, he was never that much of a stoner. 'I was more into bodybuilding and things like that,' he says. 'My humor, it's always been observational, just cracking up at all the stupid things stoners do.'"

* A Hash-House in New York: A glimpse at the curious adventures of an individual who indulged in a few pipefuls of the narcotic hemp. Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine, in 1883. [via Heck's Kitchen.] excerpt:

"Wonder, amazement, admiration, but faintly portray my mental condition. Prepared by what I had already seen and experienced for something odd and Oriental, still the magnificence of what now met my gaze far surpassed anything I had ever dreamed of, and brought to my mind the scenes of the Arabian Nights, forgotten since boyhood until now. My every sense was irresistibly taken captive, and it was some moments before I could realize that I really was not the victim of some dream, for I seemed to have wholly severed my connection with the world of today, and to have stepped back several centuries into the times of genii, fairies, and fountains—into the very heart of Persia or Arabia.

"Not an inharmonious detail marred the symmetry of the whole. Beneath, my feet sank almost ankle-deep into a velvety carpet—a sea of subdued colors. Looked at closely, I found that the design was that of a garden: beds of luxurious flowers, stars and crescents, squares and diamond-shaped plots, made up of thousands of rare exotics and richly colored leaves. Here a brook, edged with damp verdure, from beneath which peeped coy violets and tiny bluebells; there a serpentine gravelled walk that wound in and out amongst the exquisite plants, and everywhere a thousand shrubs in bloom or bud. Above, a magnificent chandelier, consisting of six dragons of beaten gold, from whose eyes and throats sprang flames, the light from which, striking against a series of curiously set prisms, fell shattered and scintillating into a thousand glancing beams that illuminated every corner of the room. The rows of prisms being of clear and variously colored glass, and the dragons slowly revolving, a weird and ever-changing hue was given to every object in the room."

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