Freakshow Magazine Online!

  When I was about 8 years old, I wanted to be a Pygmy. Pygmies are tribal hunters and gatherers, living in the Congo basin. They’ve been there longer than anyone knows. Even scientists, studying their DNA, can’t figure them out. The average adult mail reaches a height of less than 4 feet, 11 inches. They live as they did many centuries ago. Google pygmies and you’ll find out. All about their huts, camp fires where they fix their meals, and everything! I thought they were wonderful and I wanted to be one. Let me tell you about it. First of all, I grew up in the 40’s and 50’s. Two highlights of my childhood were that we went to the library every week on Saturday and in school, every Friday, we received Weekly Readers. My Mom took us to the library in our small town of 3000 people. We walked 3 blocks. Not too many cars so soon after the war. Books were a big part of our lives…no e-books, 5-Gs, ports, recharging cords and no screens. (The only screen in town ...

  Ahhh, Peyote. We meet again. Peyote is a psychoactive alkaloid that comes from a small cactus that grows wildly in the Chihuahuan Desert. The cactus can be found in areas of Texas and Mexico and is common among scrub where there is limestone settlement.  You usually find small “buttons” on cactus’ that grow close to the ground. This is the peyote.  It can be chewed, or it can be boiled into a tea. Indian tribes have used peyote for generations; not only for spiritual purposes, but for anesthetic purposes as well. Peyote is sometimes given to a woman experiencing childbirth. For me, peyote was twelve hours of teeth grinding, eye popping, muscle clenching weirdness. I popped the horrible tasting root (is it a root? Must check sometime…) into my mouth and started chewing. At the same time, I went and retrieved a joint out of the car, lit it, and started to inhale the sweet smoke. I was going to need this joint, and probably one more, because about a half an hour after I sw...

For any of you who think I’m about to fire off some Honky-Tonkin’, Beer Drinkin’, Shotgun-Rack-In-The-Back-Of-The-Pick’-Em-Up Country song lyrics based on the TITLE of this screed; relax. Your woman has left you, wrecked your truck, and got your dog neutered. Nothing I can do about it. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, put on some Led Zeppelin and tell everyone your ex has Industrial Strength South African Super Herpes, like a MAN! No. This is NOT a country tune; it’s a symphony played on a trashcan accompanied by a dancing monkey wearing a little vest who whines musically about the outrageous cost to the nation of Jerry Nadler’s waistline.  Far ago, in a land long, long away, I was celebrating the end of my first tour as a bandleader at a party hosted by my good friend Ed at his family’s cottage on a lovely lake in Central Michigan. Everyone was there; old high school friends, a few band members, our entire road crew (both of them), and my cousin Scott, who drove up to th...