Laci Green takes the Red Pill

It all began innocently enough, Laci Green finally broke her YouTube radio silence of a few months around May 11. At the same time, the former host of MTV’s Braless announced the following to her Twitter followers.

“my intentions: open a dialogue. learn a thing. evaluate popular anti/SJ arguments based on science, logic. explore the matrix. eat pocky.”

The dialogue she was planning to open was with anti-feminist and anti-SJW (social justice warrior) YouTube channels. The Matrix name drop was a sly reference to the world of so-called “red pilled” men’s rights activists. Not unlike former feminist Cassie Jaye, Laci found that certain members of the feminist community took great offense to the idea of even considering, much less attempting to “see how the other half lives.”

Continue reading at the Inquisitr.

Shaman Claus

The origins of both medicine and religion have some similar roots. Many of them reach thousands of years back to Tengerian tradition of Shamanic myth, magic and medicine. The Tengerian Shamanic tradition of Siberia was also influential on the traditional Christmas celebration and the Santa Claus mythos connected to it, as we’ll see today.

Among these cultures are the northern Tungusic people, Lapps, Evenki and other Siberian tribes.  The Evenki were predominantly hunter-gatherers and reindeer herders as were most living in the harsh region. The Evenki people’s word “saman” meaning “one who knows the spirits” is the root of the word describing the “medicine man” type religious healer in pre-modern cultures.  An important part of the religious and healing ceremonies of the Tengerian Shamanic medicine man was the use of “fly agaric” the Amantis muscaria mushroom, better known colloquially as a “red-cap” or “toadstool.”
redcap
If you’ve seen pictures of giant red warty mushrooms in fairy tale drawings or little white spotted mushrooms in Byzantine art featuring Jesus then you’ve seen the amanitas mushroom. Interestingly enough, it’s not called a toadstool because toads are known to sit on it, rather because of a constituent that also happens to be found in “eyes of newts”(or Bufo Alvarius, the Sonoran Desert Toad) and other witchy sounding formulas.

Continue reading at the Gifts from Earth Knowledge Base.

Vignette I: and so socrates said, “well make that a double”

49 promotions and publicity

from the tentatively entitled: “house of the yellow lichen” (to be a lovecraftian horror by way of burroughs/thompson in the vein of philip k. dick)

Vignette I: and so socrates said, “well make that a double”
Consider it screwed

you know though, it’s probably best not to take most of what i say without a dose of salt (and maybe a tablespoon of activated charcoal if you have any about). i don’t know what it is i’ve got but i’m pretty certain by now it’s contagious and it may very well spread as easily through thought as any other vector. orgonian overdose? mk-ultra? electromagnetic pollution? satellite array transmitted assassination networks (SATAN, for short), i dunno what it is these days but lately it’s like a constant headache, fog or else a mania. Feel my brain all tingly…I wonder if listening to black metal while generating new neurons will have any repercussions?
Better than my old buddy “big red’s” idea though surely: Huff raid, he said, it only kills the weak braincells
oh well, at least i’ve been recording/documenting all i’ve seen and thought i saw. all the connections i mined or imagined. I’m a goof, sure but sometimes I’m pretty sure that maybe deep down I could be great undifferentiated connective tissue, too…

i will never forget the first story i was told when i finally made it to the yellow house:
It was up here in Northern Cali, maybe Ukiah but I think probably more like Garberville, I knew a guy who would crystalize Raid by spraying it on an electrified screen. He would scrape it off and bag it up and sell it as speed. Apparently, the pyrethrins short circuit your nerves and create an amphetamine like sensation…as they DIE.
Well that’s a nifty recipe for a hot shot. I exhaled, remembering the ridiculous trek following Nathan (not the Nathan I had come to McKinleyville, home of the largest totem pole in North America to see, but it seemed portentous at the time, so I followed) that ended with me in the middle of nowhere, dressed in leather fringe and tight, paint stained purple denim, twisted ankle throbbing in Burbank cast off mock-moccasins). That needs to go into a story though, I thought to myself.

True story. He said. I watched him do it.
Whoof… I barked, just under my breath
Yeh…it was brutal. His old lady had a smack habit. Dope don’t buy itself. Caveat emptor..
Yikes, cuz what fun is fucking a girl to death when you could see her die so much more slowly by letting her boyfriend fuck HIM to death and let her live with THAT debt

Hey, you roll the dice, you takes your chances…

 

i need to get on with it though, at least draw together the important parts, let you make of it what you will. something about a psychedelic sentient lichen and that place they called the house near hootenannie where
the floor rotting in was nothing to the mist of must that gently constricted and tickled the inner soft fleshy palate of throat flesh
then there was
the society of seekers scene, only known as the society of seekers to hangers-on, “prospects” and the scant group of researchers who seem themselves nearly as cultish and obsessed. society members (most of whom manage to evade any public note apart from basic census data)

on your role, complete in every detail, the rollercoasterdips and dives
i’m getting off track again though, aren’t i. this always happened. the weird, wired way my brain worked, the way i thought in a sort of web, wrought with recursive loops. sometimes i drop the golden thread entirely, at that point i’m done for.
like, have you ever woke up, either from anesthesia, being knocked in the head hard enough to cause a concussion or the wrong combination of compounds? that first second, the sort of ether huffing, laughing gas “wah wah” that you get from good model glue, the warmth in the pit of your cheeks and then the brightness and a sense of overhwelming “okayness” followed by a swift and sharp panic, of “where am i, what just happened, hasn’t this happened before, who am i?”

TO BE CONTINUED (perhaps)

WKRN Nashville Kratom Scare Story Sourced From Scientology Propaganda

Nashville’s WKRN news team may be sticking their foot in their mouth after copying factually incorrect information from a group that acts as a front for Scientology. Narconon, not to be confused with the legitimate and well-respected self-help organization NarcAnon, was the source for their litany of side effects for kratom. Kratom is an herbal medicine that has become increasingly used for multiple conditions. Narconon, which is a front for the Church of Scientology, have themselves been implicated in multiple deaths at their supposed rehab centers. Of three recent deaths at the cult-connected rehabs, an attorney on the case stated that “he believed that … death could have been prevented if the staff would have placed her into medical detox.”

Read more at the Inquisitr.

Special Report: Bewilderoo, TN

A not so common look at the not so common festival.

by Phillip Fairbanks

Though the festivities didn’t begin until June, my Bonnaroo story begins in March, when I got my confirmation that I would indeed be receiving press credentials and tickets for the big show. In a way, here in early July, I’m coming full circle as I put pen to paper in attempts to capture some literary tincture of that magic something, that “temporary autonomous zone” that for four days in Manchester, Tennessee is known as Bonnaroo.

The first elements are preparation and anticipation. March through June were a whirlwind of consciousness expansion including, but not limited to, ingestion of obscure, legal herbs from the Oaxacan, Mayan and Aztec canon, shadowboxing, glossolalia, yoga and failed attempts at emulating the painfully intricate moving meditation of Master Li Hongzhi’s Falun Dafa. At about the same time, I was working on a sort of counterculture Tony Robbins, a la Tim Leary and Robert Anton Wilson that resulted in pages of maps, models, schemas, tips, tricks, mantras and insufferably incoherent psychobabble based on anchoring intense states for ready retrieval. Here I was treading on dangerous waters. My roommates at the time, who had dealt with this quasi-psychotic behavior since March had had enough by the time May rolled around.

Armed with new and activated knowledge, or as Bob Wilson deems it “neuro-somatic knowhow,” I didn’t let this snag steal the momentum of the movement, but consciously down-shifted at this point. Besides, after a frightening Salvia Divinorum experiment gone awry, it seemed high time to arc down my emotional parabola.

Being a small town boy from a rural area, having something as big as Bonnaroo breeze through once a year next door, so to speak, is a dreamlike experience. Being at times, a pretentious performance artist for an audience of one, constantly crafting an opus I like to call, my life, the annual festival down on the farm down the road is always an ordeal, a crucible and a rite, not merely a convergence of people, art, music and drugs (though these are typical cornerstones of many ancient ritual festivals as well). Needless to say I got no sleep Wednesday night and word comes that they’re letting folks in to set up camp so we head to Manchester.

I get dropped off Thrusday morning around 3:30 in the A.M. By the time sun comes up my tent is stilll unpacked. It’s hot and there are thousands of people surrounding me in every direction. I’m closed in. Bonnaroo has become overnight. A rush of adrenaline tinged terror wraps icy tendrils about me. I know that my notorious lack of direction will ensure that I will lose my site if I leave. After meeting Will and his group, I decide it might be safe to leave as long as I don’t get separated from them and lose all chance of ever rediscovering my campsite. Already I’m feeling that soft sadness that accompanies this small town boy’s Bonnaroo experience. It’s beautiful, like life, but like life its over before its begun, and I make sure to soak up every ounce of that weird tincture of emotions that infectiously spreads. Like Norman from New Jersey had corroborated earlier. The world is a strange and weird place.

Read more at Ghettoblaster. 

Chris Whitley, War Crime Blues review for Rambles.net

Standout tracks like “Her Furious Angels” and the title track showcase Whitley’s sparse, yet complex picking patterns while highlighting, as well, his adept literary talent. The same jovial energy Chris bombarded us with in earlier hits like “Scrapyard Lullaby” keeps the listener hooked to the folksy drone of his acoustic axe. Another jewel is Whitley’s cover of the Lou Reed tune “I Can’t Stand It,” bridging folk-blues and old-guard punk in an irresistible fusion.

If you’re a fan of Whitley’s early work, you’ll not be let down, but if you’re unfamiliar with the artist and a fan of good blues, then War Crime Blues is definitely worth a spin. The work is from the same vein as earlier releases: nouveau-vintage acoustic Delta blues.

(Did I just make that up?)

Read the rest at Rambles.net