The Yin and Yang of SPICE
All Aboard The Buddha Express
Synthetic THC is no joke
We first heard sniffs of it around 2010 — a synthetic type of THC stronger than actual weed.
It was in a transition phase — too early for any law banning it. The street name, if there is such a thing except in tongue-in-cheek cop shows, was:
SPICE.
The first brand I discovered was called PUFF.
It was the real deal. I believe it may have been why the damn thing took off in the first place.
It came in a small tin as a very dark green, fine dried leaf. You could say it looked more like cannabis leaf than bud. I smoked two types. The first had a ground-up purple flower in it. The second, known as ‘PUFF RED’, had a ground-up red flower in it. Apparently, it was made in New Zealand.
You smoked this stuff, and it immediately took you into a blissful, compassionate state where you felt a profound love for everyone and everything in the universe.
The high was so strong that it could be compared more to a Class A drug than cannabis.
The strangest thing about PUFF was that the high would last 20–25 minutes. Then, almost like clockwork, you would sober up with not even the slightest comedown or side effect. It was as if you had never even smoked the stuff at all.
It was a triumph.
I worked in sales then and would smoke it on my lunch break. I’d get extremely high at the State Library in Melbourne. Then I would wander back to work totally sober.
It was the perfect working man’s drug.
Sadly PUFF got thrown out with all the other stuff when they made SPICE illegal in Australia.
And you would think I would disagree with that. But I didn’t.
Because there was the other type of SPICE.
The first time I tried a brand called WOODSTOCK BLUE.
They had sprayed this synthetic THC onto some light green bud-type material that was made to resemble cannabis. I smoked a big joint of the stuff with my friend Gary. We were in a park in Melbourne City before we went to a movie at Crown Casino.
Somehow, even though we had half an hour to spare, we ended up very late for the movie. I walked up to the counter to buy some snacks but didn’t know how to do that.
How do we do this? I asked Gary. He mumbled something so odd that it scrambled my brain, so we just gave up and headed down to the movie.
We went into the dark cinema, and the movie had already started. I looked at our tickets. We had seats G4 and G5, and were looking along the rows at the letters.
Row A, Row B, Row C.
Damn. I couldn’t for the life of me find row four or five, so I started asking people loudly.
Excuse me. Do you know where row 4 is? ROW 4?
It was a terrible, terrible thing.
Halfway through the movie, which I didn’t even watch a moment of because I was lost in very strange thoughts, I started to come down heavily.
I experienced a terrifying urge to commit suicide immediately for no reason whatsoever. The urge was so strong that it took all my willpower to stay in my seat.
It was one of those drug experiences where you consider calling the authorities to protect yourself from yourself.
Gary told me he had a similar experience.
About a week later, another friend told me about a brand called BUDDHA EXPRESS.
As a Buddhist, I figured I must try it. With a name like that, it couldn’t be as bad as WOODSTOCK BLUE.
I smoked it in a bong in my garden with Gary.
I went first. It was a huge dose. The moment I sucked it down—
Who’s asking? I say, in a voice like Costigan, my old Spanish teacher.
It’s Mike Beaver asking. That’s his fucking earth name anyway.
Or Planet 3353Z-E, as he would call it.
Not that he is a he.
He ain’t a she though either before you ask.
Nor a they. This ain’t no pronoun party, you damn milk eater.
You’d think he’d have some kind of notebook, this spaced-out alien journo.
But no. He remembers it all. There are no memory problems in the future see where Costigan came from or Mark Beaver or whatever his name was/is.
You think we are coming from out there, he tells me. But we ain’t. We’re coming from out in the future, not out in space.
He tells me that this world was a paradise till humans first went back and fucked it all like Marty McHugh by creating a nuclear hell like the dystopian Hill Valley in 1985 where Biff rules.
That fucking almanac.
I don’t understand, but he says no need anyway.
Just answer the question, Claire.
These fucking aliens like Matt Beaver always know pop culture. They take that shit too far. I saw one once try and fit into human clothes. That bastard got funny stares at the music sale, I can tell you.
What good is a phone call if you are unable to speak, the Beaver says.
I didn’t say anything about a phone call, and he’s joking, of course, but Smith ain’t the kind of thing you joke about. He hears this even though I said it in my head. Speech ain’t the type of thing they worry about in the future.
I shake my fucking head cos I don’t know how to answer.
Take this fuckin bar from my arsehole, would ya Beaver and I’ll tell ya what I know.
He tells me he can’t.
It’s so the others can measure my interview as a complete experience.
They want heart rate and body temperature, bacterial reactions, and brainwave. It’s all available through the stomach.
The same place I keep my fucking Big Macs and Sprite and beef jerky and carob raisins.
It’s a sphere of infinite information. Something doesn’t seem right about that.
It’s only fucking slightly uncomfortable. I can tell ya that much.
I didn’t notice it going in.
I’m not sure I can say the same about when it comes out.
Beaver laughs, and so does his team. They think that shit’s funny cos either it’s gonna fucking ream on the way out, or I’m gonna die or — well, they are the choices.
Answer the question NEO, Beaver says.
I’m sure he’s mixing up his Pop culture references now, and it’s making my arse fucking itch, but my hands are tied.
I ask Beaver to itch my arse for me and my cock while he is there. He obliges without homofear, and I appreciate that. I offer to pull him off later in return. He doesn’t understand what I mean by that.
I don’t know what to say.
What is it like to be human?
It depends on the day.
Are ya talking Wednesday or Friday or Monday or the start of the month or the end and what age?
What height, what race, what gender? Don’t you fuckers understand individual karma?
They don’t. The probe goes deeper, and now it feels hot. I take back everything I said about it being alright. It’s like someone is roasting chestnuts in my arsehole. Merry Christmas. God bless us, everyone.
My arsehole is on fire.
Fuck knows? I say. We see colours. We eat food. We —
I’m looking down at the bong.
I’ve just blown the smoke out.
Gary takes the bong from me and starts packing his own. I should stop him, but I don’t because I can’t speak.
He takes a deep pull and closes his eyes for a few seconds.
He opens them.
FUCK, he says.
He tells me that men in black balaclavas burst into the house and dragged him out into the back of a van. They continuously asked him for the codes to the nuclear bomb they had. He kept telling them he didn’t know, but they insisted.
He packs another cone and hands it to me.
Fuck that, I say. You have it.
Fuck that, Gary says.
And yeah, the trippers might be thinking, Like cool, Dude. I’d love to try it.
You wouldn’t.
The come down off that one was feeling dislodged for a week and grappling with the very real prospects of having to get yourself institutionalised.
So yeah. I’m glad they banned it.
Still, I often think about PUFF and wonder if, somewhere, it’s still making someone happy.
