From: Linda Reed--PCC West Campus CSC <lreed@west.cscwc.pima.edu>
Date: Mon, 20 Jul 1998 16:49:22 -0700 (PDT)
To: cypherpunks@toad.com
Subject: If You Think I'm Crazy Now... - SPACE ALIENS HIDE MY DRUGS!!!
Message-ID: <009C977E.807CD340.3@west.cscwc.pima.edu>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain


If ou Think I'm Crazy Now
ou Should Have Seen Me When
I Was A Kid
~Geezinslaw Brothers
SPACE ALIENS HIDE M DRUGS!!!
_____________________________


From:   MX%"chrisharwig@hetnet.nl"  "kryz"
To:     MX%"bleed@west.cscwc.pima.edu"
Subj:   Re: Leftist Nutly News - SPACE ALIENS HIDE M DRUGS!!!

I think you're a bit out of line. Wish you well and all of that. 
Strength that is.

----------

  A "bit" out of line?
  I'm trying to be *way* out of line, but I guess I'm a failure
at that, too <sigh>.


  Children of the 60's can all remember where they were when they
heard about JFK being shot. Many of them can remember where they
were when they bought their first pound of pot, and most of them
can remember where they were when they sold their first pound of
pot (particularly if they got busted in the process.)
  I bought my first pound of pot in a public park in Edmonton,
Alberta. I needed to sell it to get the money to pay a fine for
drug possession, and I couldn't, in good conscience, pay it with
money that I'd earned by working for a living at my regular job.
  Let me explain...

  It was the summer of 1969...

 [Debitor's Bad Note: If 90% of the events in the Author's life
  seem to have somehow occurred in 1969, this might be the result
  of the massive electroshock and hypnosis treatments HeOrSheOrIt
  underwent under the...care...of an MKULTA physician in Saskatoon,
  Saskatchewan, Abram Hoffer, who undoubtedly appears as only a
  minor, peripheral figure, if at all, in most literature on the
  subject...likely as a result of great care being taken by shadowy
  background figures to keep him out of the limelight, ala Kim 
  Philby, due to the fact that the record of his 'personal history'
  seems to be unable to withstand close scrutiny once one begins to
  investigate the time periods preceding the end of WWII.
  Hhhmmmm...]

  Quit interrupting, Dogamnnit!

  Anyway, I was working in orkton, Saskatchewan and living with a
sixteen year old high school student with no parents, no job, no
source of income, who always paid his share of the rent, and always
had better clothes and more spending money than me. [It turned out
that he had two motto's in life. 1)Everything that isn't nailed down,
is mine. 2)Anything I can pry loose, isn't nailed down...]
  The apartment we shared tended to be a hang-out for a variety of
local high-school kids, who would invariably bring by any interesting
characters passing through town on the couch circuit, who needed a
place to crash for the night. One of these characters was Frank
Skanks, an older fellow.

  The drug scene in orkton was basically a Virtual Drug Scene, where
most people knew somebody who knew somebody who had once copped a
bag of weed on a trip with their parents to Vancouver, and shared
it with a few close friends on their return.
  Upon Franks arrival, however, things picked up, and a few of the
local kids suddenly seemed to have access to a fair amount of smoking
dope. There even seemed to be some acid floating around.

  I returned home one evening to find a bottle of wine in the fridge,
and had several large glasses before 'the gang' returned from a trip
to the Dairy Queen, whereupon they became dismayed to find that I
had consumed such a large portion of a concoction they had prepared
in accordance with Ken Kesey's directions in 'The Electric Kool-Aid
Acid Test.'
  That seemed to explain the fact that I was able to pick up Messages
>From Mars through the fillings in my teeth, which I had always had
trouble doing before...

  I found it to be a fairly pleasant experience, even though I did
feel a slight bit of guilt, knowing that I had inadvertantly setback
the plans of a dozen or so people who had hoped to get high with the
portion of Dr. Skank's Magic Elixir which I had unwittingly consumed.
  I didn't mind being 'dosed,' since I had already figured on trying
LSD on the proverbial SomeDay. When my enlightened reverie was
interrupted, however, by the sight of Frank Skanks teaching a group
of thirteen-to-fifteen year olds how to tie-off and shoot up, my
pleasant experience took on a rather sour note.
  When my efforts to put a stop to the proceedings failed, largely
due to the rush of young children knocking me down in order to get
a good place in the line that was forming, waiting for Frank to find
one of his few remaining good veins, I decided that, in the interests
of saving at least a single child, I would  call on Dudley DoRight 
for help.

  I walked to the local RCMP station, dodging the dinosaurs and 
hobbits which seemed to be everywhere, in a multitude of colors,
and proceeded to inquire as to whether they might be interested
in helping to postpone a group of young teenagers' entry into the
world of needles and spoons and basement rooms until a later age,
when they might be in a position to make better judgements in that
regard.
  After throwing me in a jail cell, and grabbing a wide variety of
heavy weaponry, a quickly assembled RCMP assault force rushed out
the door, to 'save the children.' I had the uneasy feeling that they
were intent on saving them even if it meant killing them.

  I didn't get any sleep that night, undoubtedly as a result of the
fact that I was 'tripping for twelve,' and I could hear a lot of
muffled, semi-legible conversations taking place on the far side
of the walls, or door. They didn't seem to make sense, and I assumed
that it was because of my temporary residence of planets of another
galaxy.
  The clearest verbal communication I heard, as the door to the jail
cells was opened, was, "Wrong door!"
  I don't know who spoke those words, but I imagine that it was one
of the Mounties in the company of Frank Skanks, who was staring at
me with extremely wide eyes, and with excrement obviously filling his 
shorts in less time that it take to utter, "Can you say *cop*! Sure 
you can..."

  I was totally dumbfounded, as well as still extremely wasted, but
I still managed to smile, and say, "Nice suit, Frank." before the
door closed and the conference which had apparently just broken up
was quickly reconvened.

  Being young and naieve, I thought that this was the end of the
story, an interesting story I would someday be able to tell my
grandchildren, after DNA testing showed my denials of paternity to
be outright lies.
  What I didn't understand, at the time, was that my surprise at
finding that the Great Canadian Hero, Dudley DoRight, was somehow
involved in something which seemed to run contrary to the Official
Movie Mythology, would soon be supplanted by total incredulity that
the spot of shit I had observed on the end of Dudley's Dick would
soon prove to be a massive amount of shit covering the RCMP members'
members all the way to their pelvis, and dripping down off thier
balls into their rubber boots.
  And the shit would smell an awful lot like mine...

  The Official Story was that, after performing a search of my
apartment, and finding nothing, the RCMP returned with members
of the force who were more 'experienced' in this area, who, lo 
and behold, found a single joint in a suit-jacket pocket.
  I was charged with possession of marijuana.

  Tiny, a member of the Apollos Motorcycle Club in Regina, who Frank
had travelled into town with, had apparently told Frank to 'fuck off'
when asked to introduce him to individuals throughout the province,
with Frank paying travelling expenses and providing spending money
during the trips. Tiny was willing to testify in court as to Franks
apparent instigation of illegal activities on behalf of some entity
who seemed to be funding him.
  A few days before the trial, we were pulled over by the Mounties,
who took Tiny into their police car to have a chat with him. Upon
his return, Tiny told me that it was suggested to him that if I got
off on the charge, that they would have to find someone else to take
the fall, and that he was next in line. Tiny assured me that he would
still be there for the trial.
  Bye, Tiny...

  In order to convict me of possession of a single joint, the RCMP
sent two Mounties to my hometown for a week or so to investigate me,
as well as contacting everyone I have known since birth.
  Although my lawyer had assured me that the case would undoubtedly
be thrown out of court as a result of the RCMP's tacit admission
that a wide variety of individuals had been seen coming and going
from my apartment between the first and second searches (while I
was still in jail), I was convicted, receiving a criminal record
and a $ 300.00 fine (at a time when other people were getting $ 50.00
fines and conditional discharges--no criminal record).

  Being a well-programmed True Believer in Truth, Justice, The Flag,
The National Anthem, Dudley DoRight, Mom's Apple Pie, ad infinituum,
it took me quite a while to fully understand that I had been screwed,
blued and tattoo'd for the crime of...seeing something that I wasn't
meant to see.


  Those who have found themselves subjected to my insane, inane,
wild-eyed rants on the CypherPunks Disturbed Male LISP might be
surprised to know that I didn't, at the time, get 'a bit out of
line,' as <chrisharwig@hetnent.nl> might say.
  As a matter of fact, I pretty much retained my naievity, somehow
convincing myself that this event in my life obviously had to be
some kind of aberration of TheWayThingsAre (TM), or that the RCMP
detachment in orkton had been taken over and subverted by the
Body Snatchers, and that I should just mark it all up to having a
BadHairDay.
 {I have not come by my cynicism easily, having had it pounded into
  me over the course of the years by a variety of members of our
  Officially Recognized Authorities who deemed that, once I had
  become an OfficiallyLabledBadGuy, I was fair game for anyone who
  was in need of 'someone doing something dirty, decent folks can
  frown on.'}

  Although I will freely admit that I remained, for the time being,
an ignorant, well-programmed middle-class Canadian white boy, I am
rather proud of the fact that I showed a spark of future promise as
an individual capable of evolving into AManWorthyOfBeingCalledAMan,
as Gurdjieff would say, by listening to the voice inside which told
me that there was a line I could not cross and still retain any
semblance of integrity and self-respect.
  I could not, in good conscience, allow these thieves to take my
hard earned money, in payment of the court-ordered fine.

  I was met, after my conviction, on the steps of the courhouse, by
a group of local teenagers, most of whom I did not know, who were
aware that I had never smoked a joint in my life, and had decided
that if I had to do the time, I might as well do the crime.
  The first joint I ever smoked was on the courthouse steps in 
orkton, Saskatchewan, after having been railroaded into a criminal
conviction in order to prevent my being in a position to speak out
about my inadvertantly gained knowledge of RCMP malefeasance.
  The first pound of weed I ever bought was in a public park in
Edmonton, Alberta, which I sold in orkton, Saskatchewan, in order
to pay a fine that resulted for conviction of possession of a drug
I had not only never before done, but had never before seen.

  So, Constable McClean and Corporal Esau, swear out some new 
warrants and take me to court. I've already confessed...

Sincerely,
Mr. BigFuckou