The Queen of Pink Acid

The Queen of Pink Acid

When I was a senior in high school, my girlfriend, Denise, got her hands on a shit-ton of pink mescaline. She was a pretty girl with huge brown eyes who had an immense appetite for life.  I had never done mescaline before and the night I decided to try it with my friends she had to work.  She worked at a geriatric home in Wheaton and used to go to work tripping.   She was gentle and careful and with a head full of mesc was really easily entertained by the senile old folks.  Me and my friends each ate a micro-dot of this stuff and decided to go see The Omen, which was a horror movie; nothing like a scary movie when you’re tripping.  About 10 minutes into the experience I turned to my friends and told them nothing was happening except I was vaguely giggly, so I demanded another microdot.  Well, an hour later we went to the movie and it was really boring for the first five minutes until Damien, the son of the Devil, is having his birthday party. And right when I was starting to peak, Damien’s nanny hangs herself.  FUCK.  And then it just got more weird; with Damien trying to whack his mother, Lee Remmick, and poor Lee (already in Traction) getting tossed ass-over-teakettle out the 20th-story hospital room and landing on the roof of an ambulance–or through the roof, I should say. We laughed our asses off and stayed for the next show as well just to catch the hanging nanny scene again.

Mescaline was like acid-lite; not crazy powerful, no hallucinations or anything, but the stuff made you see lights and was very retinal, in that you’d see little light trails.  It also made everything funny and was a natural aphrodisiac that made girls as horny as bag of rabbits.

If you could sleep on the shit you had whack-job dreams that were wonderfully vivid in that you could remember them; or at least I could.  Tripping at school was way too dangerous, in that you felt like everyone was watching you and everyone was, because you’d be sporting a smile bigger than Curly Howard’s ass-crack and no matter what anyone told you, it was funny.  “Hey, Tony. They just blew up an orphanage”  would be a laugh-riot, or “Tony…. you’re failing three subjects…”; sheer fucking lunacy.  It also made awful  shitty dreck like Castenada seem deep and The Lord of the Rings became a great moral tale.  It also made Euro-rock bearable, which was the particular taste of my friends.  You could spend hours trying to figure out asinine shit like the real words to Louie, Louie.  Mescaline made these things not only bearable, but entertaining.

I can remember listening to a pert and perfect redhead babble gerbil-like indecipherable horseshit about Nostradamus while waiting for the mescaline to carbonate her hormones.  It was a long fucking night; one of many listening to idiotic “profound” ‘shroom and acid-raps that eventually became as boring as church.  But the dreams (I still remember some of them). . .I’m glad I don’t do drugs anymore.  And you should be too.

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