Wednesday, June 04, 2014

Measuring Journalism's Rate of Decay -- UPDATED

(Updated with this rotoscoped version of MoDo's journey to the center of her mind.)

From Hunter S. Thompson, genuine, tear-ass reporter,

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, 1971
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive...." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?"

Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.

There was also the socio-psychic factor. Every now and then when life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only real cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas. To relax as it were, in the womb of the desert sun. Just roll the roof back and screw it on, grease the face with white tanning butter, and move out with the music at top volume, and at least a pint of ether...

One toke? You poor fool! Wait till you see those goddamn bats...

From Maureen Dowd, brittle hot-house boomer flower, New York Times, 2014
The caramel-chocolate flavored candy bar looked so innocent, like the Sky Bars I used to love as a child.

Sitting in my hotel room in Denver, I nibbled off the end and then, when nothing happened, nibbled some more. I figured if I was reporting on the social revolution rocking Colorado in January, the giddy culmination of pot Prohibition, I should try a taste of legal, edible pot from a local shop.

What could go wrong with a bite or two?

Everything, as it turned out.

Not at first. For an hour, I felt nothing. I figured I’d order dinner from room service and return to my more mundane drugs of choice, chardonnay and mediocre-movies-on-demand.

But then I felt a scary shudder go through my body and brain. I barely made it from the desk to the bed, where I lay curled up in a hallucinatory state for the next eight hours. I was thirsty but couldn’t move to get water. Or even turn off the lights. I was panting and paranoid, sure that when the room-service waiter knocked and I didn’t answer, he’d call the police and have me arrested for being unable to handle my candy.

I strained to remember where I was or even what I was wearing, touching my green corduroy jeans and staring at the exposed-brick wall. As my paranoia deepened, I became convinced that I had died and no one was telling me...

Actually, Dowd did die, long ago, along with most of the rest of Elite American Journalism.

Their corpses have been shambling up and down the Acela corridor for years, cranking out awful, trivial copy, bathing in money, ferociously defending the privileges of their tribe and playing dress-up-dolly games with the lives of little, living people.

So file this under: "Why zombies should never get high."

Because for the undead, wild jolts of ungovernable honesty and self-reflection and can be shattering.

And now, this PSA from Fake President Carter:


DJ said...

To freak her out completely, someone should tell Dowd that Daddy would have never approved.

gratuitous said...

I believe Ms. Dowd may now retire. Anyone reading anything more that woman writes from now until the sun goes nova should have the image firmly fixed in mind of Ms. Dowd on her motel bed (and no, you don't want to shine the black light on that coverlet), curled up in green corduroys.

Game over, man. Game fucking over.

Anonymous said...

Its funny, because I just spent a week in CO on my first vaca in many years, and my experience was somewhat different.
In my hotel room (with yummy edibles and other things) I felt like I had just been wrapped in a warm down comforter.
The room service meal tasted like my first since coming off a 3 month stay in a life raft on the ocean: Delivered by a lovely young lady with a knowing look in her eye.
My paranoia then raged so hard, I was forced to float down to the lobby for Cheetos and snicker bars. Everyone was judging me!!
I cant wait for the article when Ms.Dowdy "accidently" ingests a few grams of shrooms.
She could write it with her toes on the padded walls.
What a maroon...
If only the former Aspen resident was still around to retort.

janet said...

Too bad, the video isn't available. But, "Do you have any Allman Bros.? had us crying laughing at the time. Thanks for the reminder.

zombie rotten mcdonald said...

So file this under: "Why zombies should never get high."

Hey now.

zombie rotten mcdonald said...

even odds it never happened.

John Harris said...

You should cut her some slack here. Forget for a minute her past sins and enjoy that she's writing about something--her own experience--that she knows about. It hurts your own credibility when you show that you can't/won't ever see anything good about the person you criticize. You want cannabis in the mainstream? Then don't fuck with initiates.

Unsalted Sinner said...

I believe the movie version of MoDo's column is called "Reefer Madness".

Frank Stone said...

Lindsay Weir's marijuana trip from Freaks and Geeks was better.

dinthebeast said...

ZRM may have a point here. The times when I misjudged what an appropriate ingested dose was (there were a few, I was born and raised in Humboldt County) all resulted in an extended sleep. Once, after brewing a surprisingly good tasting beer with what worked fine for one bottle but not two, we discovered our mistake only after our front room looked like Jonestown.
A small to moderate ingested dose in someone who doesn't usually partake could possibly result in the effects she describes, but color me skeptical. Perhaps she wasn't truthful about the actual amount she consumed. That hour before you come on can seem like forever and cause you to think "maybe I didn't take enough..."

-Doug in Oakland

Anonymous said...

Like MoDo, I rarely partake. Ingesting too much results in an annoying lethargy but never anything like this story Color me skeptical.

Anonymous said...

Maureen Dowd is stupid and her imbicile prose about weed is untrustworthy clap-trap.

We call this kind of fiction idiocy.

Ric-from the land of sky blue waters

Mister Roboto said...

It was common knowledge among college students back in the eighties that eaten marijuana is much more potent and lasting in its effect than smoked marijuana, and that you have to be patient and wait an hour or two for the full effects. The one time I tried full-potency pot-brownies at the Mifflin Street Block Party in Madison in 1988 (the last year you could buy them there, thanks War On Drugs), I had not one but two of the dosed confections, and I didn't regret it at all.

Anonymous said...

Being an oldster who now partakes occasionally (once did so frequently), one of the most important things to do in these days of increased potency is to ask for an Indica variety in all forms.
Indica's usually have a lower THC level and almost never bring on the paranoia.
Of course, as everyone has pointed out, edibles although they come on slower, bring on a much longer term effect. If you do eat too much and want to come down, simply eat some much as you can.
This dilutes the edible in your digestive system and usually will put you right to sleep as well.
...and of course, not eating 8 times the recommended amount in the first place helps a lot.
What pisses me off about Dowd's article, is it will invariably be used for a round of :Think of the children?
In reality a younger person would not have had the same experience anyway, so fuck her.

Mister Roboto said...


I was under the impression that indicas are famous for their potency. It certainly could be that they are less paranoia inducing because the THC buzz from indica is influenced by CBD, which is not psychoactive all by itself but will make a THC buzz feel a lot more like a heavy body-centered high. A pure sativa has a much more cerebral kind of high, and I can see how too much of that would cause paranoia.

zombie rotten mcdonald said...

is it will invariably be used for a round of :Think of the children?

I mean,dude, REALLY think of the children....

dinthebeast said...

Think of the children? Sure. Just juxtapose the writing of MoDo and HST for them and most of them will do just fine.

-Doug in Oakland

Anonymous said...

"even odds it never happened."

BINGO, ZRM! I think this is her version of Mr Mackey's "Drug are baaad, m'kay?" She's angling for something.

perhaps she'll be the next token "liberal" on FOX news

jim said...


Edited: Her prior dialogue with the eye-rolling stoner that told her in no uncertain terms that she needed to do a few wee vape hits instead, then warned her to only eat one square because a big oral dose is pretty fucking heavy-duty psychotropic action for a noob to deal with.