7fatcow.com

hat tip to nanach.net

I'm moving to Boston. Anybody else coming along? (So those bastards are good for something!)

Boston Globe:  Voters approve marijuana law change

Yeah, timemanagementforanarchists.com has some great tips for keeping your life useful and productive without need of a boss or externally imposed structure– and through them I found Nomediakings.com, which talked me into self publishing my book next time i'm in town. But all that is trivial in the face of this little meditation: My trip to liberty city where a gentle Canadian narrates a video of his trip to the base of Grand Theft Auto 3, and just walks round, visits a park, mimes a little, just to show how much more there is to appreciate in even the most problematic metropolis. Watch and be touched at the familiar traveler innocence that is possible when you're not just trying to win something.

It just might have been, or could very well become.

I mean we already have this as a Seder plate,

so why not use the Amazonian palm berry, açaí,

for the "pri etz hodor". It's healthier than the inedible citron, and is considered a super fruit and coming soon to a fruity hippie shul near you?

[ TRIP: The Jumbo açaí grew in the rainforests which in formative years covered lower Egypt.]

Açaí has the first two letters of Esrog, so anything is possible! And it's in the palm family. And it's the most delicious thing I ever tasted.

WOW.

The Magic Jews BY Hamilton Morris, Photos By Jess Williamson

When I first walked into the apartment on Ridge Street on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, I didn’t see much because the lights were off. It was a long empty room with couches lining the walls. Empty cans and bottles everywhere. At four in the morning all that was left were the remnants of a party. Nothing unusual. A Hasidic Jew was passed out on his back, yarmulke resting on the cushion next to his head. His cell phone was wildly ringing digitized klezmer music from within his wool pants. He lay totally still. I walked toward him, wondering if he was alive. The phone cycled through four more rings before he swiped at his pocket, at which point I let out a sigh of relief.

I could hear muffled singing coming from behind a closed door down the hall. I stepped over the passed-out Hasid, making my way into the next room. Inside, it was completely dark. The air was warm with the smell of bodies. Ten, maybe fifteen, naked Jews were perched, chanting in flawless harmony with one another. They stopped briefly to greet me and then resumed. I watched them speechlessly for a moment before posing the question “What’s going on?” A voice in the dark made an incomprehensible remark about LSD, and everybody broke out in bouts of electrified laughter. And then the chanting began again. I only stayed for a few minutes, watching them in awe before I felt for the doorknob and got up to leave. Back in the other room, a Hasid I had not noticed before informed me that the party was over, the acid was gone, and I should come back the next day. I asked him when and how frequently this sort of thing happened. He responded: “Constantly.”

For many, religion is tedious work. A chore handed down from generation to generation, rewarding only by virtue of its being unpleasant. Few have had a genuine religious experience, something that warrants worship, reverence, time, and faith. I know I haven’t. In Jewish mysticism, God is partially defined by his lack of definition. He is infinite and unknowable, the eternal question mark. I had my first psychedelic experience smoking salvia in a friend’s station wagon when I was 16. I lay screaming with laughter, soaking myself with tears, snot, and drool. I knew that something significant had happened, something that would definitely fit under the “infinite and unknowable” heading. But to say that it was a religious experience would be wrong. It was better.

Two days after the party I received a phone call from one of the Jews. I expected it to be along the lines of another party invitation, but to my chagrin it was a request to attend the funeral of one of their friends. He had overdosed on cocaine the previous night. I got on the F to Parkville, Brooklyn, and then walked toward 39th Street nervously. Attending the funeral of a Hasidic Jew I had never met, without a yarmulke, wearing a purple leather puff-coat, made me generally uneasy. Outside the Shomrei Hadas Chapel, Hasids paced nervously while smoking cigarettes. I walked through the door and took a seat in the back, trying to remain unnoticed. At the front of the synagogue a wall of black-clad Jews blocked any view of what was going on. I listened to the Hebrew prayers drone on and found my social discomfort slowly melt into sadness. When the service ended I filed out to watch the pine box heaved into a Ford Excursion as mobs of family and friends cried and smoked and talked on cell phones. It was here that I met Aaron, one of the few in attendance who was without religiously sanctioned clothing. He began to explain things a bit.

The previous night one of his ex-Hasidic friends had been on a drug binge, taking massive doses of coke, ecstasy, and an assortment of benzos. He was fine, if extremely inebriated, when he retired to bed, falling asleep next to his girlfriend. The following morning she woke up next to a corpse. Aaron explained, “It’s a nonstop drug binge without drug education. These Hasids have all lived incredibly sheltered lives. You really can’t even imagine unless you’ve been there. When they stray from their families nobody has told them not to mix this with that, speed and ecstasy, alcohol and Xanax. It gets seriously dangerous.” “Who’s selling them this stuff?” I asked. “There are drug dealers who get a kick out of the whole thing like, ‘Let’s get the Hasids fucked up,’ you know? Which is fine, but they don’t realize that’s exactly what’s going to happen—they are going to get really, really fucked up.”

As he told me this I felt overcome by frustration. Maybe it was selfish, but the thought that all I would see of this renegade Hasid drug life was one tantalizing taste, that it was already over and everybody would be scared straight and the scene would disintegrate into obscurity before I got a chance to learn exactly what was going on, really disappointed me. “So I guess this is the end of it all?” I asked. Aaron paused and said, “No, no, no. Definitely not.” And on that note I was invited to a party the following night.

To take a moment and clarify my religious background: I am a Jew. I was bar-mitzvahed (at Masada no less) but I never went to Hebrew school. I never went to temple. I learned a CliffsNotes version of Hebrew and memorized my Torah portion from a recording on a MiniDisc. In short, I know nothing about Judaism. I am also not religious or “spiritual” in any way. I feel awkward even saying the word “prayer.” The Jews I met at Ridge Street come from Hasidic and Orthodox Brooklyn neighborhoods. Most speak Yiddish as their first language. Aside from a love of psychedelics and maybe some shared genetics from way back when, we have nothing in common. I was introduced to all of them by a friend of a friend of a friend. A psychedelic mushroom is called a magic mushroom, and by that logic these Jews could be called Magic Jews. So that’s how I started to think of them.

Full Article at ViceLand.com

Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae,

vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.

ad te clamamus

exsules filii Evae,

ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes

in hac lacrimarum valle.

Eia, ergo, advocata nostra, illos tuos

misericordes oculos ad nos converte;

et Iesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui,

nobis post hoc exsilium ostende.

O clemens, O pia, O dulcis Virgo Maria.

 

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/09/us/09salvia.html?hp 

tell them nadia,. ill tell them through u, jew fuck hitler rage
germans poles yugos ottomans ages of protocols wagner spleening with
river blood drippers behind the smile shark seal kill up and down
blake's tiger swallowing the lamb like they ate their lamb

allah may his name be praised, then peace, then  walk in the garden
that is dreamt in the oasis,
cossack catapult 1666 mad blood rage rape killing long hard wooden
pole opposite crucifixion jesus got off easy gas chamber monster skin
dissolving formula get em on trains, the french, the czechs the
slovaks the romans, billions flow into this as i feel as iwait

twin towers glee of the, man was that a shot. we stood on Brooklyn
rooftop clapping silently blue sky allah mohammed willing the
abscission and soon all and west west west west, Europe, America
Genghis Kahn is coming, little pickle weapons with fucking flesh
dissolving emitters baby baby baby

Achmed: twist the head, Marwan: twist the lower head, bottle cap crocodile twirl

Blidethy fuck

And ill get literary on ass

Cause I studied at your fucking institutions trying to become some
kind of western intellectual fuck ADWARD SAID BERNARD LEWIS THE WHOLE
FUCKINMG OREIENLIST THING . Ezra pound hated em and wrote better
poetry then Allen Ginsberg, another fuck of theirs to be crucified

This is mein kampf but Hitler, great as he was, ain't this, ain't what
is up baby, cause this the final game baby

Literature 2: Kafka, Hemingway, Faulkner, Handke then Ozick speaking
about faggots on south beach

Literature3: Lacan, Barthes, Lowell, Derrida on Baraka (ah! Nigger hate!
Little Jew boy with that yarmulke on your head, little Jew boy I wish
u were dead) the French delve into his shit write some fucking essay
about "camp" with Mapplethorpe dragon up anus final expression of art
as meaning fucking twentieth century prof of nothing, ma on nothing
PhD ON BULLSHIT MOBY DICK WHICH BITCH DIDN'T GET COMES HOME TO RIC
PUDDING AND

Cause ill spin words before deeds, maybe I wanted to be a poet no time
no time just get out the 22 years till the click click

Cant stop with university Seders Hillel premonitions, Jewish smile,
eye twitching butterscotch speech

Their fucking birthright trips pissed the hell out of me fucking blond
haired liars from rancho mirage or Plymouth, Mass like "oh I'm checkin
out my tradition: like some fucking Harvard guide to student travel
"and u must try the pate on rue des rosiers in quatrier latin, love
quatrier latin, blood flow quatrier latin, blood flow Europe, blood
flow Muslim takeover of France and the west

I recited the blessing. It felt real good. I sort of felt the flow of goed energy encircling me.

I don't remember having THAT feeling before.

We don't know if it will work since Rabbi Levin wasn't there, and two of the people praying eat pig regularly.

Reports from the Northern Nevada desert that a dust storm has caused many to leave invigorates our prayers only further for personal friends attending and for everybody else.

 We intend to have a Thursday night cholent on the playa. If not Thursday then Friday night. If not Friday night then for shaleshides.Whoever would like to write a kvitel to be placed at the feet of the Man or at the Temple, write it here & I will have it written out to put there.As known, the Temple at Burning Man is a mokoym kodoysh, where thousands of kvitlach, messages etc. are left. They burn the Temple Sunday night, the night after the Man. This year's Temple looks awesome.If I have access to the internet on the playa, I'll try to post here some updates so everyone can be mitstaref in this awesome experience. Pray for me, that it shall be nichnas b'sholom v'yotzoh b'sholom.  If I don't make it, you may curse me at my funeral & cast my bones to the vultures. Thanks in advance. YadadadadadaDA!!!! http://www.burningman.com – Z.I.Y.