My story begins with my parents and grandparents, as I was born with the unique legacy that came with my family. We were not told much by our mother of her childhood, but we know that she was raised in Virginia, first daughter of a second marriage to a wealthy couple. My grandfather was a CEO and they lived in a mansion of a home and mother was raised by a black nanny- as we were told was normal in privileged homes of Virginia at the time. Mom grew up in an alcoholic home, and it sounded like there were some traumatic experiences that came with it.

She became an incredibly passionate, independent thinker that wanted to change the world- she became a hippy. She would study anthropology at William & Mary and teach seminars to jam packed business conferences about saving the earth and other topics, and spent time living in Africa and Columbia serving the poor. At some point she would meet the LDS missionaries, convert from Protestantism to Mormonism, and transfer to BYU to complete her education.

My father was born to a WWII veteran and a woman that had already abandoned several children to the foster care system a few years earlier in California- she was an alcoholic as well. She would abandon my dad also when he was 2 years old and his father would find a distant relative with a daughter of the same age to care for him during the week. My grandfather would die suddenly only a year later and so my father was placed in foster care and later adopted by the family that he had been living with since he was two. He would keep his original last name. He grew up in the loving home of the Moloney family, with a mom, dad, and “twin” sister.

Despite this, Dad was a bit of a lost soul, struggling to find himself, getting into drugs, getting kicked out of many catholic schools and finally giving up on high school altogether. After a short stint in the Marines, he would also meet the LDS missionaries, convert from Catholicism to Mormonism and start school at BYU to study history- his dream was to become a teacher. My mother and father were in drama classes together and became good friends before their stormy relationship evolved into love.

My parents were married several years later- they eloped of course. They were like oil and water sometimes, and their passion, dysfunction, and the fact that neither ended up finishing their last semester in school led to a lot of chaos and instability in our family. Dad became a house painter- a job he never liked. Mom stayed at home with a rapidly growing family- a job she was wholly unprepared for or really interested in. They never owned a home and so we were forced to move every couple of years, including cross-country several times. Other than a two year period, when we lived in Virginia near my mom’s family, we had little family contact and a limited support network.

Despite my dad’s strong work ethic, times were tough and we lived on thrift stores, food stamps, and often barely survived day to day. As we grew, the conflicts increased, the instability continued, and the cracks showed up even more on our home and family. In our world, we saw this environment as normal. Our parents did love and care for us and despite their many struggles, they did their best and they taught us values. They taught us passion, determination, integrity, morality, service, and faith. My father stated that all he hoped for was to give his children a life better than the one he had- and in many ways, he accomplished that for us.

too nonconformist to pay rent

I volunteer with radicals and anarchists, socialists and new wave hippies. Every week I spend a full day cooking, and hanging out with them. We do good work, we feed the homeless, we utilize society’s waste and make it into something great. We give out information, we protest.

But sometimes I absolutely hate them. These fucking worthless anarchist squatting pieces of shit, doing nothing for anyone but their own high moral code, helping people only as a by product of their agenda. Dirty hippies, coming to my house where I pay bills and do work so they can eat my food, shower in my shower, and use my internet because they’re too nonconformist to pay rent and get a job like a normal productive member of society.

But I will never say these things.

I take great pleasure in being able to report that the critically acclaimed and Tony Award winning 60s tribal-love-rock musical ‘HAIR‘ is coming to the Gielgud Theatre in London, from April 2010, direct from Broadway!

I am so chuft, I have been saying for years that we really need HAIR to come back, and I am so thrilled that next summer is going to be the Summer of Love for musical theatre!

HAIR originally played in London at the Shaftesbury theatre at the end of the 60s, and had some amazing people in it including Paul Nicholas, Richard O’Brien, Elaine Paige, Floella Benjamin and Tim Curry. In fact, its original West End run proved to be more popular than the original Broadway run, so this really is a bit of a coming home for HAIR in my opinion.

I really like that it’s Sir Cameron Mackintosh who is bringing HAIR back to London, as he worked as a production runner on the original 1968 London production, so it really is a full-circle kinda thing.

For the West End 2010 production, the ENTIRE Broadway cast are coming over to appear in it, with the Broadway production being completely recast. The show will open for previews on April 1st, with opening night scheduled for April 14th. The Broadway cast are initially scheduled to be here as the West End cast until October 2nd. This will mark the first time in recent memory that such a cast upheaval has happened, with recent productions of ‘Spamalot’ and ‘Wicked’ only flirting briefly with this idea as seen in their trans-Atlantic transfers of their respective lead actresses.

I’m also really pleased to see Equity UK and Actors Equity (US) for working together to allow this movement of talent (they’re citing economic and employment benefits, but hopefully this freedom of movement will continue once the recession is long behind us).

Equity UK has posted a few tweets on Twitter about the move:

“Hair will be part of an exchange agreement so British actors will be allowed to perform in New York.”

“Also, with Hair, the intention is to hire a more British cast once, or if, it takes off” (erm… if? IF?! )

“There is a shortage of jobs but Hair creates work for Brits in NY & there have been more Brits on Broadway than Americans in the West End”

I am going to make a perhaps controversial statement here, and that is that I do prefer the film adaptation to the original stage musical version itself. Sorry! Do note that I have said that it’s the stage musical version itself and not any specific production – big difference! Please view my earlier blog post for my explanation of why this is (it’s mainly storyboarding): CLICK HERE.

That said, I have been following the production in the US with avid attention and I am thrilled that it’s coming over. When I say that I prefer the film adaptation, that in no way deters from my enjoyment of the musical itself – I think of them as two separate entities really, one is live theatre, the other is essentially a movie. Watching it in the theatre will be a completely uplifting and different experience I reckon, and I can’t wait to see if my preference gets overturned! I also hope that we’ll get lots of open air appearances in Royal Parks etc, as the cast were frequently out performing in Central Park last summer in the US (largely as that’s where their original revival was staged).

For those with Spotify, you can hear the remarkably good 2008 Broadway Cast soundtrack by clicking here.

So many of the songs from HAIR have transcended into music pop culture, that I am sure that this’ll be a massive hit with all suitable age groups over here once again. Whether you love the amazing opening number ‘Aquarius’, or it’s that you recognise ‘I Got Life’ from Nina Simone’s classic mash-up of the musical’s original song (or from those Muller ads *sigh* heh!);  or it’s ‘Let The Sun Shine’ from Milk and Honey; HAIR is guaranteed to spark a hippy revival in the West End and provide something that’s completely unique to the mix of what’s currently gracing the London theatre scene!

I CAN’T WAIT!

As a person with a history of nasal congestion and sinus infections, I’ve tried every drug on the market – Sudafed, Dayquil, Tylenol Sinus, Benedryl, really anything with the words “allergy” or “sinus” on them.  In fact, when I moved last week, I discovered that I could fill an entire shelf of my medicine cabinet with my myriad of decongestants.

But lately I’ve been realizing that while the drugs may mask the symptoms, they leave a lot to be desired.  Sure, they dry out my sinuses, but that often leads to post-nasal drip (and a subsequent stomachache) and a variety of other side effects, most notably that distinctive feeling that my head is disconnected from my body.  Time to try something new.

Enter: the neti pot.  It looks fairly harmless, almost like a mini-version of a teapot.  But what it lacks in bulk, it makes up for in potency.  The plan is to run a lukewarm saline solution through the nasal passage in order to clear it out.  Simple enough in theory, right?

Well theory doesn’t always translate into practice.  Especially since the first time I tried out this instrument, I missed the part about “lukewarm” water and used whatever water first came out of my sink, which might even have been considered “cold.”  I mixed in the saline solution, stuck the end up my nose, tilted my head, and my first thought was:

OMG NOW I KNOW WHY WATERBOARDING IS CONSIDERED A FORM OF TORTURE.

But as I blew my nose, I realized: “Hey, there’s something to this “clearing out the sinus cavity” thing, isn’t there?”

That night, I once again filled the neti pot – this time with warmer water from my bathtub – and it was a much more pleasant experience.  I still felt a bit like I was voluntarily drowning, but I was starting to determine my own pace and ability to not flood my nose. The next morning was the real test, as I woke up significantly less stuffed up than I’m accustomed to during cold season.

This neti pot experiment might be similar to the way that I originally felt about contact lenses, in that at first I thought, “you want me to put that WHERE? and touch WHAT?” and eventually it just turned into such a part of routine that I couldn’t imagine not starting my day by putting in contacts.  I don’t know if putting saline up my nose will be a daily activity (especially since it makes my nose sort of feel salty), but it’s definitely going to be a part of my new-fangled cold remedy solution while simultaneously decreasing my accidental dependence on diphenhydramine.

More hitch-hiking stories, I’m afraid. Now that I’ve dragged up the ones that I’ve written about so far I’ve found a couple more memories have come back to me. One concerns an old friend, Niall, who is now a member of the space-rock band Hawkwind. We’d decided we wanted to head for Stonehenge and see if there was going to be a Solstice festival by the stones. The previous year had seen the Battle of the Beanfield, in which the police had broken up the revelry by smashing traveller’s coaches and pulling women out of vans by their hair, so the grapevine was uncertain what might happen the year we set off in the back of Niall’s dad’s van. (His dad, MO, took us some of the way but not all, if I remember rightly.)

We arrived a day late: I have always had trouble working out whether the Solstice falls on the dawn of the longest (or shortest) day of the year or whether it is the following dawn. Things must have been pretty quiet that year anyway as we encountered few fellow hitchers and no travellers. In nearby Salisbury we wanted to go and grab a coffee or a bite to eat somewhere but every single shop seemed to have the same, hand-written sign stuck on the door: ‘No Hippies!’ I managed to find a small shop which would sell us a couple of pasties and some drinks by making them laugh when I insisted I was not a hippy, I was a beatnik. While we were munching away we met two girls who thought we might find a small festival at the  wood henge near Amesbury, only a couple of miles away. When we found the place it was deserted so we all ended up in a neighbouring field. The girls, sensibly, had a tent, which they pitched while we boys gathered wood and lit a fire. Niall and I had not thought to bring a tent, thinking we’d be able to crash in someone’s van at the big festival we never found. We did have sleeping bags though so we laid them out on the ground across from the girls tent and we all warmed ourselves by the fire.

And then the rain came. Quite heavily. The girls tent was far too small for four of us to have crammed in there so they found us some bin bags to put over the outside of our sleeping bags. And there we lay, Niall and I, with our heads stuffed under the sleeping and bin bags, praying the rain would ease off at some point so that we wouldn’t die of water on the brain. Then, in the middle of the night the sound of rain battering my flimsy, sodden bed stopped and I poked my head out to behold a glorious sight. The break in the clouds had formed a perfect circle and slap bang in the middle of the circle was the full moon. I wondered what the odds would be on such a phenomenon as I stared at it, transfixed, and finally feeling as though I’d found some Solstice magic.

On the other occasion that has sprung to mind, I was again travelling alone, heading for Sussex once more. I had been picked up by a decent guy and had been chatting for about forty miles or so but knew that when the motorway we were on connected to a different motorway (the M25 around London), he was going the opposite direction to the one I needed to go. I also knew that it is illegal to hitch on motorways but if I wanted to try and pick up one of the smaller roads it would mean a walk of several miles. It was already dark and I was not keen on the idea of the walk. So when the guy dropped me off I decided to use my cunning. I walked along the M25 until I found one of those telephones which, in pre-mobile phone days, were the only way of contacting breakdown services if you had car trouble. They asked me what the problem was and I told them a big fib: I said that I’d been dumped on the motorway by an angry driver and that I knew I shouldn’t be here because it was against the law. They put me through to the police who immediately wanted to know why the driver had been angry and dumped me there. Remembering a story a fellow hitch-hiker had once told me I said “He tried it on with me, you know, wanted to have sex with me. And I told him I wasn’t into that so he got angry and told me to get out of his car.”

The police said to stay where I was and they’d come and pick me up and drive me to a more suitable spot for hitching. By the time they arrived I was feeling really guitly about my lie. Not only were they now wasting police resources and time on a bullshitting hitcher, I felt bad about my last lift as he was, as I’ve said, a decent guy who I’m sure would never have dreamed of coming on to me. But soon enough I was in a nice warm cop car, chatting merrily away with the policeman who wasn’t doing the driving, and generally being treated so nicely that I let their kindness wash over me and help me overcome my guilt. They dropped me about thirty miles further down the road but there my luck ran out. Or perhaps karma decided that enough was enough and lying to policemen was a breach of the hitcher’s code. Whatever the reason, I failed to get another lift that night and ended up sleeping in a ditch. At least it didn’t rain that time as, again, I had no tent. Well you know what they say: ‘Lying hitch-hikers never prosper, they always end up covered in mud and cow shit from sleeping in ditches.’

Tomorrow early morning I will be flying off to Cairo, Egypt, for a congress of interculturalists. And I am feeling a bit edgy about it. Not that the travelling itself causes that; there has been so much of travelling and flying here and there in the last years that the excitement has all gone and has been replaced by the irritation over being squeezed in the seats of the planes and over the endless security checks at the airports. The anxiousness is also not about having so many things to do before leaving, since basically everything has been done already – about nine hours before the departure from the house. So I will even get a proper sleep this night.

The nervousness has been building up during the last few weeks because I feel that this is going to be a trip into my past and into my long forgotten feelings.

I spent a few weeks in Cairo in 1983, on my hippy journey into the unknown, at 17. After hitching a free ride with a ship from Jordan across the Red Sea to Port Suez, I entered Cairo late at night, no money at all, no clue about whatever, no address to go to, no food, nothing. Somehow I managed to come down to Aswan a few days later, but my attempt to enter Sudan without a visa failed and after a week or so I was in Cairo again. Well, it is a pretty long story, but in the next weeks I befriended some Tanzanian guys with equally empty pockets, and one of them kicked me from the self-pitying state of mind into a pro-active one, telling me that if I ever wanted to get enough money together to buy a visa for Sudan, I needed to get on my feet and start doing something about it. So, there I was, for the start going from one church to another, trying out my luck. In one Coptic Orthodox church a priest with a long black beard and utterly shining eyes stood at the courtyard, smiling warmly at me. Before I could complete my lies about being robbed, he stopped me, squeezed some money in my pocket and told me: “You come to us. We will take care of you, feed you, host you and help you get whatever you need.” His eyes were lovingly smiling and sparkling, as if he knew me all the way down to the bottom. And so I came and was fully accepted and taken care of, for about a couple of weeks. The priest was one of the most gentle souls I have ever met, just being warm and supportive, never even attempted to convince me into his religion or anything. Finally I left, clean, well fed, with the Sudanese visa and a train ticket in my pocket. And with a very warm heart.

In 1986 I took my first trip to India. I flew from Europe via Cairo and experienced a nightmare at the airport, with my passport and tickets being temporarily lost because of some confusion of officials, then raced in a van toward the plane that was already standing on the runway ready to take off, racing back after a few minutes because I had failed to provide baksheesh that would actually get me on the plane, spent another few days losing my mind over illogical discussions with the airport officials and finally found myself in the Cairo city, having to get some senseless paperwork done in order to finally sit on my plane. And so I also paid a visit to the priest. It felt like coming home, to my old and dear friends that had accepted me in my dark times just the way I was, never questioning a thing, never asking for anything, just embracing and holding me…

Anyway, the fact that I am going to return to Cairo after so many years keeps resurrecting many memories and evoking a wide variety of feelings from deep within. I am not sure I will be able to find all the places, it’s been 26 years after all, but just thinking about it keeps bringing me in touch with the feelings of confusion and hopelessness of a lost teenager in a big wild world. I would love to find that little dodgy park where I was sitting under a tree, completely clueless, and was approached by Tanzanians, who soon in a way adopted me… And I certainly wish I will find the dearest priest in a good health and be able to express my gratitude for how deeply he had touched me.

Oh boy, it really feels like walking into a time machine, heading towards the distant past.

Yet again, I am annoyed by something about American people that most people just glance over and don’t let bother them. Oh how soothing and stress-free a lobotomy must be…

I can’t help but be perturbed by people who rail against unnatural foods. These are the people you would see at the Whole Foods Market strolling up and down the aisles in their “Impeach Bush” t-shirts, and pants that look like they’ve been cut out of a bed spread. I have no problem with the idea of eating healthy, but when you are willing to pay $5 for a half-sized bag of organic pita chips, there is something very wrong with your brain.

Now I know what you’re thinking, “what the hell does he know about the health risks of food preservatives or the health benefits of organically grown crops”, but let me tell you a little something…actually that’s exactly all I can tell you because I will be the first to admit that I don’t know shit. But I did do a little research and found that in fact there are some preservatives that can cause cancer…in lab rats…possibly…maybe.

Take Sodium Nitrite for instance. This cancer-causing yet extremely tasty chemical can be found in such health packed foods as Slim Jims, cured meats such as salami and beef jerky, hot dogs, and bacon. While you probably shouldn’t snort lines of Sodium Nitrite because you’re feeling bored on a Sunday, the amount of this stuff found in these foods, which any rational person doesn’t eat anyways, is negligible. The FDA itself has concluded that there is no proof that this stuff causes cancer in humans…only in some lab rats…on a part of their body that we don’t even have. While this is only one chemical preservative that I happen to have studied, I do understand it isn’t the only one debated. It is however one that has some of the biggest hoopla surrounding it.

I am not going to sit here and say that organic foods are useless. In fact it has been proven that they have many more important nutrients in them than their preservative-laden counterparts. But here’s an idea…the next time you’re thinking about spending $4 a pound for organically grown string beans, why not buy it at Stop and Shop, save yourself a couple bucks, and instead head on over to the vitamin aisle and get yourself an all-in-one supplement. This way you don’t look like a pretentious jack ass as you walk out of the Whole Foods market, one grocery bag in hand, $65 poorer, and with that subconscious thought you’re trying to conceal that the only reason you shop there anyways is because it gives you a persona to identify yourself with.

Or here’s another alternative. Take all that money you save by shopping at the normal human being store, and get yourself a nice hooker every now and then. With the money you free up, you can treat yourself to a vast array of stress relieving services this young lady may offer, thus lowering blood pressure, reducing grey hairs, and making sure you never have to pay alimony or child support. And if you really can’t stay away from the Whole Foods store, you can head back in there after you get herpes from said lady of the night and peruse their holistic medicine aisle. I’m sure they have some type of medication made from lady bug penises and banana peels that can cure even the most rampant case of gential warts imaginable…

hey people, recently instead of smoking my greens i’ve been baking them instead. Now its not as straight forward or easy but its defenity worth it people. Once you start getting good you don’t even taste the weed in your food. Its better on your lungs and a different buzz.

This recipe I’m sharing here is still in testing but its working great.

So here’s the ingredients your going to need:
2 cups of water
1 cup of milk
1/4 cup of butter
2 grams of bud
10 oz of vodka

Here is the supplies:
Sauce Pan
Vodka Bottle
Tea Bags
Measuring Cup
Other Shit i left out

Now for the instructions:
Grind up the buds, Then Fill tea bags.
Pour water and milk into pan and simmer on low.
Add butter and add 4oz of vodka
Add and ster teabags for 2 mins
Put lid on and simmer for 15 mins
Filter into vodka bottle with rest of 6 oz
Add tea leaves and buds and chill in fridge for short time
Store bottle in dark place for at least a week

*If you use less than 2 grams decrease everything by same percent.

I hope you enjoy.
I’m probly going to post a more complete recipe as time goes on. Take care everyone.

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I just finished working really hard on something. During this time I developed some bad eating habits (a.k.a. take away a.k.a. laziness). I now want only to eat the most hippy-est foods ever.

So tonight for dinner I made a salad of:

- grilled zuchinni

- chickpeas

- spinach

- chopped mint leaves

- chilies

- lemon juice

- olive oil

- salt and pepper

Chris would only eat a bite because he was too full from this:

Chef Boyardee! (no judgment)

All right on with the story. I might have been bit unreasonable last time but you try being in a spaceship breakdown. Not fun. But on with it.

The first thing Jane and John did was to explore their new home. The house was nothing you would call special. First floor was mostly covered in old paint buckets and hay. I heard farmers use this for their animals. Strange creatures these humans.

Second floor was bit more usefull. There was a bathroom there and also a fridge that was surpisingly enough still functioning though the objects were covered in great deal of rust. Matter of fact everything in this place is covered in ether dirt or rust. That is of course kinda bad because Jane is very Neat.

Now the third floor was bit better, just a small loft but it held a bedroom and a rather disturbing baby basket. But while I get some peace let me tell you a bit about Jane and John. While both are from planets far far away and the names so complicated they would not be understandable to your human ears so I won’t even try to say them for you. Both are very strong and talented people.

“Mission please don’t insult our readers”

“I am not insulting them, just telling them the facts of life, eccpesialy about their hearing right now”

“Just try to keep on point dearest”

“Fine fine fine”
All right. Jane is in simple words very motherly person. She is a family-oriented person that loves cooking and wants everything clean around her. She is very friendly and is an expert gardener. I have seen her grow whole lot of Mika’s over the years

John is different. He is well rather boring. He does not understand jokes, rather bad at them actually, can bore you to death. He works all the time, loves working. He wants everything perfect and wants to become something great. Thankfully he is very brave so he is at least useful sometimes. Now let’s get on with it.

John’s first line of action was getting a job. After looking through my data he found that the business career would be perfect while Jane would just stay home, you know take care of the house and raise kids maybe.

He took a taxie to the office with this oddest woman driving

“So, you drive people around”

“…….”

“Is it a common job in this town?”

“…….”

“hello?”

“…….”

“All right, well thank you for the ride earthling”

“…….”

The office was a nice enough place. Air condition, water coolers, cubicles. A business mans dream I guess. No need for resume or anything else. Just a short walk in and out and John had a job on his hands.

Of course said job had responsebilites and immedietly John was called up on the phone by his boss.

“Just one quick thing John…..do you have a skin-condition?”

“No my skin is fine”

“All right…um annything I should know?”

“No, ma’m. Everythign is fine.”

“All right but I’m keeping my eyes on you. I want you at work sharp at 8am”

At home Jane is reading up on the local news wanting to explore this very interesting race she is now living with. She found out that their arrival in town had already been published in the paper and request to the residents to welcome the new residents.

“They sure are fast”

“Well little but they seem nice”

“They have your name posted in the local information paper”

“Surely just for fun. Must remember to trim the garden barely could find it in all that weed”

As the sun was already starting to lower on the sky in this measly planet Jane begun making food. Or something that looked like it at least.

“What are you making?”

“Local delicacy, peanut-butter sandwich. They had it in the information paper”

And as the sun sets in this measly little town it is time for us to say goodnight and call it a day. Crawl in to our flea-infested beds listening to the termites knaw through the floor and enjoy the sound of the…doorbell?

WHO IS THAT? This is not supposed to happen? Who is this guy? We are not ready for visitors….Jane?

“Hello deary what are you doing here so late?”

“Searching for the you know ,like, party”

“Party? I don’t recall any party here”

“Well there gotta be ,like, a party somewhere”

“Well I don’t know of any party but you look cold, why don’t you come inside”

“This can’t be good”

“And then we, like, were all there just you know ,like, jsut chilling. And then the cop came and said ,like, we were not allowed to chill annymore becuase it was ,like, some private property. But we said we would ,like, move and…”

All right here I’ll cut it short, I have a feeling he is gonna go on for a while,like, forever. So for now lets rest and we’ll look at the two aliens in the morning.

I first got into incense when I visited the store of  a friend of my Aunt in Japan. Kuumba….may sound like the name of Simba’s long lost brother but in fact it’s a well established incense label that was started in Tokyo thirteen years ago by a couple of Japanese Rastas. Their store is a forum for contemporary Japanese art, reggae/dub music but most importantly smell. Smell is their calling and their being.

I am well aware that incense has a terrible rep amongst certain circles for being cliched hippy shit that smells appalling. Since visiting Kuumba I have become a great believer in incense and feel that these scented sticks of joy have been completely misunderstood. If I had my own way, the whole world would be a great smelling place.  I have however, had many a friend (it’s usually boys) flee from my room gasping for air as a result of my incense burning habit. And so I shall attempt to aid Kuumba on their scented crusade and explain why it is that everyone should burn incense….

1) Incense does not have to be cliched and hippy.

Of course it can be. If I were to grow my arm pit hair and skip around fields on acid in nothing but daisy chains with burning incense wands in my hands then YES it would indeed be embarrassingly cliched and very hippy.

You need to approach incense with an open mind. Kuumba for example provides incense with a much needed  revised image. With music playing, art aligning their walls, their incense factory in store, and chairs to hang out in, Kuumba provides customers with a community and an experience. Plus these boys really know their scents and name them superbly:  Mystical Mist and Sky Juice are two of my favorites.  For them the burning of incense is part of their Rastafarian philosophy and their various scents are a tangible and purchasable extension of this .

2)Incense can smell bad. Incense can smell good.

What is important here is the stick itself. As with anything cheap and shit, cheap and shit incense will undoubtedly smell cheap and shit. So splash out. I’m not saying spend a fortune just spend a little bit more and find out about scents before buying them. Incense should be approached in a similar way to herbal teas. Different smells have different properties and react differently with the senses of individuals. Different smells can suit different moods and different times of day…If in doubt look to their names.

For a morning incense expereince try  Good Day or Happy to Be

For a night time incense experience try Dream Maker

For a chilled incense experience try Ice

and for a harder hit…. Chronic

3) Contrary to the beliefs of sceptics incense can be very relaxing and atmospheric

Watching smoke rising is very sensual. Smokey rooms brimming with nasty smelling smoke are admittedly rank however, rooms filled lightly with sweet smelling smoke can be incredibly calming and atmospheric. It’s all about incense placement. The  Japanese place their incense in small holders on the floor either by the entrance to or in the corner of a room. This gives the smoke a chance to rise and it’s scent a chance to diffuse. Prime incense time is actually five minutes after the stick has burnt out so if you have been a hater prior to this, try fleeing the room upon burning. Return ten minutes later and it will be glorious.

Romantic Scents: Take It Off, Between the Sheets, or Nude.

4) Incense isn’t just for girls, it can in fact be very manly

It is a truth universally known that boys are prone to smelling bad. The Kuumba boys entered into the incense business because their dreads smelt bad and no one would hire them due to their bad smell and unruly appearance.  As a result their scents can be very masculine.

Try Kuumba’s Dub, Dub Master, Malcom X, Player’s Club, Rasta Man and Pimpin Ain’t Easy….. if you don’t believe me.

I hope that I have been able to persuade some of you to consider incense in another light. I have tried to aid the Kuumba Rastas in their quest to make the world a better smelling and more peaceful place . In an attempt at sealing the deal, Ill leave you with the wise words of Kuumba’s founder:

We are tour guides who introduce people to the world of incense, we are the Samurai still living. We would travel forever until we feel uncomfortable. There are good days and bad days, but every day is special. One thing you should not forget is that love is the best spice. Nothing beats that.

Kumba scents are available in The Hideout http://www.hideoutstore.com/

Why is it that anyone who takes a crap at a Phish concert seems to be able to defecate anywhere but in the poo-depository location?  All over the seat, all over the floor and all over the paper… what’s the deal?  Why do trippin hippies insist on pooping in a circular pattern?

I’ve learned over the years that even as a guy – if I want to take a sanitary #2 at any sort of potential hippie concert or festival – I can’t rely on trying to shit in a porta-potty after dark.  What the fuck gives?  I’ve got flashlight and a good sense of not having vertigo, so why don’t you?

This all comes in good nature really, a poorly mixed evening can induce the spins in even the most seasoned of liver and psychedelic… but come on man… There are handles to keep upright, just focus on crapping into the big blue plastic hole after that.  I mean cripes, they even have sky lights and nighttime glow lights these days.  What else do you need, a garden hose?

**Here, for my second hair fashion post…I will talk about Hippie Hair.

Bombshell.  It’s the NEWEST THING! woo! I’m sure you’ve seen this around….

–The Hippie Braid.

This can, of course, be done in a variety of ways.  You can braid all of your hair and put it back in a bun, you can do a few small braids in hair that is let down…etc.  Bottom line—braids are in!  So have fun with it!

—The Hippie String Head-Wrap Thing.

Basically it doesn’t matter what it is, a cute piece of ribbon, braided string…  whatever.  Nobody will question whatever random thing you want to tie around your head because HIPPIE. IS. IN.!!

<3 peace & love everyone!

“He who makes a beast  of  himself  gets  rid  of  the pain  of  being  a  man”

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

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We are all wired into a survival trip now. No more of the speed that fueled that 60’s. That was the fatal flaw in Tim Leary’s trip. He crashed around America selling “consciousness expansion” without ever giving a thought to the grim meat-hook realities that were lying in wait for all the people who took him seriously… All those pathetically eager acid freaks who thought they could buy Peace and Understanding for three bucks a hit. But their loss and failure is ours too. What Leary took down with him was the central illusion of a whole life-style that he helped create… a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers, who never understood the essential old-mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture: the desperate assumption that somebody… or at least some force – is tending the light at the end of the tunnel.

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