It Is Written

Hashish-hashin Hashish-hashin
Hashish-hashin Hashish-hashin
Hashish-hashin Hashish-hashin
Hashishin

Black-September Black-September
Black-September Black-September
Black-September Black-September
Black-September

Death unto all infidels, in oil
Guide us o thou genie of the smoke
Lead us to a thousand and one nights
In the perfumed gardens of delight

Petro-dollar Petro-dollar
Petrol-D'allah Petrol-D'allah
Petro-dollar Petro-dollar
Petro Dollar

It is written in the soul of the desert
It is written in the signs of the stars
It is written in the sands of the hour-glass
It is written

It is written in the eyes of the falcon
It is written in the shade of the scorpion
It is written in the wealth of the sun
It is written

It is written that man's truth is a mirage
It is written that death is an oasis
It is written for all unbelievers
It is written

Hawkwind, 1977

Five years ago I sat down here at my silver machine and began the Dope City Free Press. I had found, in the short time I had then been using a computer, that communicating via electronic mail was a motherfucking anchor. I could not keep up and it was not a creative enough format. At about the same time I had begun reading blogs, trying to find good ones, they are are out there, but they are few and scattered like good two-holers across the countryside.

I found the Old Blue Bus. Too bad Ed does not still publish that. Ed gave me an idea of what to do: have a drink and try and entertain people just like my Newfoundland fore-motherfuckers did in their kitchens with their squeeze-boxes and spoons when the world was less full of fucking crap and more full of things that meant shit than it is today. Hope Ed is still turning wrench, spinning bluegrass and drinking whisky in America. That is all I try and keep doing but I do it in Canada, where the whisky is better.

When 2 + 2 (our original name) first appeared I thought I would "almost certainly post a song, a dog's howl and advice that would give Ann Landers a motherfucking heart attack." Never did post songs (go buy a record, go see a show), guess I made up for that with all the dog howling and Ann Landers is dead so I guess the rare bit of advice that gets printed here must be some bad motherfucking medicine.

Thanks for reading.