The acid was just starting to take effect when I had a thought. One of those thoughts too horrible to be true, must be a mistake. I quickly tried to figure out the date. It was a Saturday night, 7:19pm, we were parked in a gravel pit one half hour after taking acid and… I was supposed to be at work 20 minutes ago.
Part of my duties at the radio station were to sit there during hockey broadcasts and plug in the local commercials during the breaks. The game comes in over the network and I didn’t have to talk, just hit the button on the CART machine at the right times and switch back over to the network after the game.
I flicked on the radio and there was the game - the announcer said “...1-0 after ten minutes of play in the first, and we’ll be back after this”. The radio emitted a dull hiss which is the sound of nothing going over the air, a cardinal sin in radio. Not quite nothing because the game announcers leave their mikes on, there was some coughing and rattling of papers, one of them burped.
This is a one horse AM station in a one horse town. The staff consists of the morning guy and me. He does weekday mornings, I do Friday nights, Saturday mornings and the hockey games - the rest of the time we’re on network feed from the parent station two hours away. It is owned by a wealthy insane man. I do not know what he used to be like, but when I came along he was in his sixties and had recently had his seventh operation to remove brain lesions. Luckily he never comes down to the station at night so I got there as quick as I could, let myself in and managed to catch the next break. It seemed the crisis was over which was good because, man, I was really starting to have trouble concentrating as the acid fully took hold.
A CART tape is a cartridge that looks a little like an old 8-track except it contains just one loop of tape, usually 10,40 or 70 seconds long, which holds the commercial or group of, and then resets itself to the beginning after playing. Later there were automated CART machines that were activated by a tone sent down by the network, all you had to do was load them up beforehand with the correct adds. But at this station someone had to physically sit there and press the button at the right time which normally requires minimal concentration. I was having no trouble concentrating…on the carpet - man it’s like a tiny miniature forest! And it’s moving! Cool.
The guys had come with me since it was my car and it was about minus 20 degrees outside. We’d just knock this over then it would be back to the fun. As I said, the owner never came down at night and I often had people up in the control room with me. As long as we remembered to take away the empty beer cans, there was no problem. These guys were familiar with the station and I wasn’t too worried about having them up there, even if they were all peaking on double hits of blotter acid. They wanted to smoke a joint but I wanted to get my CARTS in the right order while I still could, so I told them to go down the hall to the bathroom. Off they went, four big guys in boots and winter coats hooting and hollering and clumping down the hall. Of course you know this is when the owner decided to show up.
Apparently he’d left something behind. He came in whistling, waved hello and disappeared into his office. I thought to myself ‘I better go down the hall and tell those guys to be quiet and wait in the bathroom till he’s gone’. A perfectly good idea and one I promptly forgot about. The owner found what he was looking for and popped his head into the control room to say Hi. His brain condition caused him to be inordinately cheerful and to ramble slightly, often switching topics mid stream and he started telling me all about a fish he’d caught that morning and something about the government in the 50’s. I could hear a slow, rhythmic banging coming from down the hall, which I found out later was Fish banging his head against the bathroom wall because it produced an interesting echo, but the owner didn’t notice it. He finished his fishing story and was leaving when he literally bumped into them going out the door. Four big, bulky, loud young men came barging in and almost knocked him over. Of course they knew who he was and all stopped dead, like the end of an act in a play. There was a brief pause as they all looked at me for guidance but I was as astounded as them. Eventually the owner broke the spell by shrieking “What the Holy Hell is going on up here? Some sort of hippie-rock party in my station?” Fish was holding a bag of chips and I said “Uh, I asked Troy here to bring me some chips ‘cause I can’t leave the station...hey you opened them!” with mock indignation. It wasn’t very convincing and the owner started shouting, telling everyone to get out. “Not you” he said as I tried to file out with the rest.
Next thing I know I’m sitting in the control room chair while he’s standing over me yelling. There’s ‘dead’ air going over the radio (well,- dead-ish, the game announcers were chatting during the break- “what did you get up to on the weekend, Jim? I got divorced, Rick”) but he doesn’t notice, and I’m too shit-scared to move. Also I was really really interested in the way his forehead creased up as his voice rose and fell…trippy. The world stopped and he and I were in our own pocket of time and space, a dull hissing noise our soundtrack. And just as his tirade reached it’s peak, his white newly re-sprouting hair bristling above his red bobbing face, just as he seemed about to split down one side……he told me the fishing story again, bid me goodnight and with a cheery wave left whistling the same tune as when he came in.
I sat there for quite some time, as you do, trying to fabricate reason into the shambled events just past, and missing yet another commercial break. Didn’t really matter by this point. It wasn’t until a snowball hit the window with a loud whump that I found my ability to move again. It was Fish, down in the parking lot. The others had pissed off, but he lived outside of town and needed a lift from me. He’d been hiding behind the building waiting for the owner to leave. I let him back in just as the third period was ending (Vancouver lost to Calgary 3-0) and told him to stay away from the windows. I played all the missed commercials in one 10 minute hit and we got the hell out of there.
I still have dreams where I suddenly realize I was supposed to be somewhere... like a week ago. And I don’t do acid anymore. Acid is like getting a helicopter ride to the top of the mountain where it’s all wonder and light…then having to spend 4 hours walking back down in the dark. Doesn’t take long before a reasonable person gets sick of it.
Part of my duties at the radio station were to sit there during hockey broadcasts and plug in the local commercials during the breaks. The game comes in over the network and I didn’t have to talk, just hit the button on the CART machine at the right times and switch back over to the network after the game.
I flicked on the radio and there was the game - the announcer said “...1-0 after ten minutes of play in the first, and we’ll be back after this”. The radio emitted a dull hiss which is the sound of nothing going over the air, a cardinal sin in radio. Not quite nothing because the game announcers leave their mikes on, there was some coughing and rattling of papers, one of them burped.
This is a one horse AM station in a one horse town. The staff consists of the morning guy and me. He does weekday mornings, I do Friday nights, Saturday mornings and the hockey games - the rest of the time we’re on network feed from the parent station two hours away. It is owned by a wealthy insane man. I do not know what he used to be like, but when I came along he was in his sixties and had recently had his seventh operation to remove brain lesions. Luckily he never comes down to the station at night so I got there as quick as I could, let myself in and managed to catch the next break. It seemed the crisis was over which was good because, man, I was really starting to have trouble concentrating as the acid fully took hold.
A CART tape is a cartridge that looks a little like an old 8-track except it contains just one loop of tape, usually 10,40 or 70 seconds long, which holds the commercial or group of, and then resets itself to the beginning after playing. Later there were automated CART machines that were activated by a tone sent down by the network, all you had to do was load them up beforehand with the correct adds. But at this station someone had to physically sit there and press the button at the right time which normally requires minimal concentration. I was having no trouble concentrating…on the carpet - man it’s like a tiny miniature forest! And it’s moving! Cool.
The guys had come with me since it was my car and it was about minus 20 degrees outside. We’d just knock this over then it would be back to the fun. As I said, the owner never came down at night and I often had people up in the control room with me. As long as we remembered to take away the empty beer cans, there was no problem. These guys were familiar with the station and I wasn’t too worried about having them up there, even if they were all peaking on double hits of blotter acid. They wanted to smoke a joint but I wanted to get my CARTS in the right order while I still could, so I told them to go down the hall to the bathroom. Off they went, four big guys in boots and winter coats hooting and hollering and clumping down the hall. Of course you know this is when the owner decided to show up.
Apparently he’d left something behind. He came in whistling, waved hello and disappeared into his office. I thought to myself ‘I better go down the hall and tell those guys to be quiet and wait in the bathroom till he’s gone’. A perfectly good idea and one I promptly forgot about. The owner found what he was looking for and popped his head into the control room to say Hi. His brain condition caused him to be inordinately cheerful and to ramble slightly, often switching topics mid stream and he started telling me all about a fish he’d caught that morning and something about the government in the 50’s. I could hear a slow, rhythmic banging coming from down the hall, which I found out later was Fish banging his head against the bathroom wall because it produced an interesting echo, but the owner didn’t notice it. He finished his fishing story and was leaving when he literally bumped into them going out the door. Four big, bulky, loud young men came barging in and almost knocked him over. Of course they knew who he was and all stopped dead, like the end of an act in a play. There was a brief pause as they all looked at me for guidance but I was as astounded as them. Eventually the owner broke the spell by shrieking “What the Holy Hell is going on up here? Some sort of hippie-rock party in my station?” Fish was holding a bag of chips and I said “Uh, I asked Troy here to bring me some chips ‘cause I can’t leave the station...hey you opened them!” with mock indignation. It wasn’t very convincing and the owner started shouting, telling everyone to get out. “Not you” he said as I tried to file out with the rest.
Next thing I know I’m sitting in the control room chair while he’s standing over me yelling. There’s ‘dead’ air going over the radio (well,- dead-ish, the game announcers were chatting during the break- “what did you get up to on the weekend, Jim? I got divorced, Rick”) but he doesn’t notice, and I’m too shit-scared to move. Also I was really really interested in the way his forehead creased up as his voice rose and fell…trippy. The world stopped and he and I were in our own pocket of time and space, a dull hissing noise our soundtrack. And just as his tirade reached it’s peak, his white newly re-sprouting hair bristling above his red bobbing face, just as he seemed about to split down one side……he told me the fishing story again, bid me goodnight and with a cheery wave left whistling the same tune as when he came in.
I sat there for quite some time, as you do, trying to fabricate reason into the shambled events just past, and missing yet another commercial break. Didn’t really matter by this point. It wasn’t until a snowball hit the window with a loud whump that I found my ability to move again. It was Fish, down in the parking lot. The others had pissed off, but he lived outside of town and needed a lift from me. He’d been hiding behind the building waiting for the owner to leave. I let him back in just as the third period was ending (Vancouver lost to Calgary 3-0) and told him to stay away from the windows. I played all the missed commercials in one 10 minute hit and we got the hell out of there.
I still have dreams where I suddenly realize I was supposed to be somewhere... like a week ago. And I don’t do acid anymore. Acid is like getting a helicopter ride to the top of the mountain where it’s all wonder and light…then having to spend 4 hours walking back down in the dark. Doesn’t take long before a reasonable person gets sick of it.
10 comments:
Isn't acid one of those drugs that stays in your system so you have flashbacks years later?
It's like a two-fer!
there's a doco coming on about 'crank' that I want to watch. That looks like some evil shit. Melt your brain like a styrofoam box.
grandpa skook, what's an 8 track?
hehehe
it was only a matter of time before The Boy Wizard decided to fight back, for his resolve was strong and his free time plentiful.
it's ok if you have wand envy, i understand
at your age, to get your wand to cast any type of spell is a magic all it's own
Ooh, ouch.
yes exo, that's just what all the girlies used to say
What do they say now?
it's sort of a snorting sound
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