Why I think Dr. Drew is a jerk

Is there a bigger media whore on TV today than Dr. Drew? I actually crossed paths with him a few years ago at the National Association for Campus Activities’ annual convention. We were both there to to present 15-minute samples of our respective college lectures. His was a solo talk about teen sex, while I was doing my “Heads versus Feds” debate on marijuana legalization against former NY DEA chief Robert Stutman.

Seconds before I was scheduled to take the stage, however, Pinksy collared me and began ranting about how a recently invented cannabis antagonist was going to make it impossible for people like me to ever get high on cannabis again. His plan was to have all known users of cannabis forced to take this new drug. He was smirking, gloating and trying to pump as much negative energy into me as he could. When I pointed out that I was about to take the stage in front of thousands of people to promote a program that actually educated students about real facts about marijuana, he ignored me and continued his diatribe a few inches from my face until Stutman came over and told him to lay off. At the time, I had no idea who Pinsky was, but I did form an opinion of him as a jerk based solely on that incident.

It’s interesting to note his much-hyped cannabis antagonist drug went down in flames very soon after this confrontation. Yes, they did develop a synthetic drug that blocked the primary cannabis receptor site. But after studies with the drug revealed people who took it became severely depressed, the drug was scrapped. If Pinsky did his research, he’d know that the endogenous cannabinoid system is actually one of the most important, and least understood, systems of the body, and it is essential to maintaining a healthy immune system, as well as creating feelings of bliss and inner peace that occur naturally through exercise and/or meditation.  And that is why these same feelings can be achieved with cannabis, which duplicates the body’s own natural cannabinoids. Although this system is essential to creating and protecting neurons in our brains, it is located throughout the entire body, especially in vital organs. The other day I was channel surfing while at a motel immediately after at “Heads versus Feds” debate, when I caught a few seconds of Pinksy’s new TV show. He was interviewing porn star Capri Anderson about intimate details concerning her association with Charlie Sheen, who has lately replaced Lindsay Lohan as Pinksy’s favorite celebrity target. Pinksy believes Charlie should be forced into a psyche ward and have all his assets seized as he is legally insane and not able to care for himself. The reason for this is because Sheen (like most people on this planet) likes to get intoxicated.

It was absolutely creepy to watch Pinsky manipulate Anderson into talking about her intimate sex life. He also kept reaching over and fondling her knee during this interview, which made it clear he derives some sexual pleasure from his interrogations. It’s absurd to think Pinksy is doing anything other than glorifying the worst aspects of celebrity culture through these programs. He’s not part of any solution to our growing cultural narcissism since he clearly is a media whore who revels in sticking his nose into intimate details of celebrity lives that are actually none of his business. He does this to achieve ratings, not to help anyone. If Pinsky truly wants to do something to help people with addiction issues, he’d be much more effective referring them to ibogaine centers in Canada, since ibogaine has a much better success rate than the 12-step programs he currently promotes. And he needs to realize that cannabis has nothing to do with hard drugs, and some patients with addiction problems could actually benefit from medical cannabis.

Remembering Basquiat

During the winter of 1979, I moved to New York City and was crashing in a loft below Tribeca with a friend of a friend while I looked for a cheap apartment and job. After a late dinner, my host took me to an after hours club on Houston street to show me my first taste of New York City nightlife. There was a bebop jazz combo performing and it was around midnight when we walked in. While I was standing at the bar, a young black man approached and asked me: “Are you sure you’re in the right place?” Until then, I hadn’t realized how out-of-place I looked in my button-down shirt and ski jacket, and I got very self-conscious. I’d just arrived from graduate school in the Midwest and it would take years for me to assimilate into a New York sense of style. I was so punctured by the comment that I never forgot the dude, although it would be several months before we met again.

Actually, my next encounter was with the art, not the man. One hot summer afternoon,  I traveled to the Lower East Side to interview Fab Five Freddy. At the end of the interview, Fred showed me a postcard for an opening at the Annina Nosei Gallery. “Wow, what a great painting!” I exclaimed the second I saw the image of two primitive figures with a roast chicken being placed on a table.

I didn’t know much about Jean Michel at the time, but I did know something about current directions in art. After years of the dominance and eventual dead-end of minimalism, there was an obvious yearning for color and imagery. I’d recently written the first magazine profile on Julian Schnabel for the now-defunct Horizon magazine and knew imagery was on the way back. But I was startled by the originality of that postcard. I think Fred was a little let-down by my sudden burst of excitement. I’d been looking at his work for an hour (he was hoping to sell me something) and hadn’t reacted so strongly to anything he’d shown me of his own. I got the impression Fred was feeling a bit overshadowed by his friend Jean Michel’s exploding talents. Like many graffiti writers at the time, Jean Michel was making the switch from writing on walls and trains to painting on canvas. But he wasn’t making “graffiti-style” paintings at all, rather he was creating an entirely original vocabulary.

In 1981, when Diego Cortez’s seminal “New York/New Wave” show opened at P.S. 1, I was most impressed by a photograph of a train painted by Futura 2000 and purchased a signed copy of that photo direct from Futura. It was at that show I decided to devote the next few years of my life to researching the origins of hip hop, which culminated in my book “Hip Hop” as well as the film “Beat Street.” Those projects took me to the South Bronx, far away from the Soho art world Jean Michel had recently invaded. However, as soon as I completed those projects, I began work on a book titled “Art After Midnight,” which was going to tell the story of the rise of the East Village art scene through the stories of its most famous practitioners: Jean Michel Basquiat, Keith Haring and Kenny Scharf. I already had solid personal relationships with Haring and Scharf, but knew getting close to Jean Michel was going to present a challenge. One of my closest friends at the time was a gossip columnist for the East Village Eye and also a rival of Basquiat’s. They apparently had some ongoing feud over some girl, a feud Basquiat eventually won.

I called my friend Mary Boone, who was now representing Basquiat. She agreed to take me to visit his studio (and home). A few days later, we arrived at Great Jones Street. I think the author Robert Faris Thompson (“Flash of the Spirit”) was there at the time. Basquiat seemed fully aware of my work on hip hop history and treated me with utmost respect. He brought Mary and I to the back room and showed us his latest work, a series of oil stick drawings on paper. The work was phenomenal. Mary had a great eye and tried to sort out the best pieces immediately to take and sell, but Jean Michel coyly put the best ones aside. He was keeping them for his own private collection. I could see he was pretty savvy about maintaining control over his legacy and finances. Before I left, we set up a time and date for me to come back and start interviewing him for my upcoming book.

When I returned a few days later, Jean Michel was still in bed and had forgotten about the appointment, but he agreed to get up to see me. After a short wait, his studio assistant led me upstairs to his bedroom. He had a bottle of very expensive Bordeaux and a joint going. He offered me a glass of wine. “It’s a little early for me to start drinking,” I said, “But I’d love to take a hit on the joint.” There was a huge stack of records next to a turntable, and the room contained hundreds of videotapes and a large projection TV. It was really hard to get Basquiat to open up about his childhood, so I began talking about the club scene, specifically Club 57. I was working on a preliminary thesis there was a stylistic divide between the mostly European sensibility of the Mudd Club and the pop/camp culture of Club 57. When Jean Michel said he didn’t really grasp the appeal of the Club 57 aesthetic (“Why do something old and bad?” he said), I jumped on that comment and began pursuing that line of questioning aggressively, which immediately made him suspicious and paranoid unfortunately. Then the phone rang. The second he picked it up, I knew it was Andy Warhol. “I’m doing an interview,” he said, “but I’ve already said too much.” By the time he got off the phone, he’d already decided to end the interview. “It’s like the end of mystery,” he explained. “I can’t do this.”

I was pretty crushed. I’d envisioned several long interview sessions and felt it was unlikely I’d ever be invited back, which I wasn’t. Several months later we crossed paths again briefly at a Kenny Scharf VIP party at Area. I was celebrating the arrival of the proofs of a color insert for my book, “Art After Midnight,” which included double-page spreads on Basquiat, Haring and Scharf that looked spectacular. I put the layouts on the bar and  Glenn O’Brien and Jean Michel both inspected them. I could tell Jean was pleased with his layout. I was hoping the book might resurrect a relationship. Later that evening, I bumped into Jean in a remote corner of the club. He was alone and seemed strangely isolated for such a celebrated figure.

Last night I watched “The Radiant Child,” Tamra Davis’ loving documentary, now available on Netflix on demand, which is where I see most films these days. It’s a very powerful film and the most well-rounded biography of Basquiat I’ve come across. I was a little bugged by the title at first since its taken from a Rene Ricard Art Forum article. “Radiant Child” is a reference to a Keith Haring icon and has nothing to do with Basquiat. I wish Tamra had come up with a different title. But her film is the best introduction to Basquiat around and I strongly recommend it. After watching the film, I felt compelled to write down these memories.

43rd Anniversary of 420

A  group of students at San Rafael High School in California became known as “The Waldos” because they could be frequently found sitting on a wall in the school yard they’d made their regular hangout spot. They could also be frequently found imbibing cannabis and were widely known as the school’s biggest potheads.

One day in late spring 1971, someone approached the Waldos in the schoolyard during lunch hour with a piece of paper on which had been scrawled a map of Point Reyes Peninsula. “My cousin is in the Coast Guard and he planted this patch of marijuana,” he said. “But he thinks his commanding officer is onto him, so he says anybody can go pick the patch.” The Waldos were very excited indeed. This called for an almost immediate “safari,” which is what they called road adventures. They especially loved Mexican safaris as they almost always produced weed. But it was never free like this! One or two Waldos had an after school activity, so they couldn’t meet immediately after school. And they had to meet as close to the parking lot as possible, so they could quickly pile into one car and head for the patch. So it was decided to meet at 4:20 pm at the statue of Louis Pasteur at the entrance to the parking lot. And for the next few hours, whenever they spotted each other in the hallway, they gave a little salute and said the words, “Four-twenty, Louie,” to remind each other not to miss the appointment. When they met at the statute at 4:20, they smoked a joint, piled into their car and headed off to seek the pot patch.

Younger kids in the high school picked up on the ceremony and began holding annual events at 4:20 at the top of Mt. Tam, but when they began making flyers and distributing them at local Dead shows in the Bay Area, the rangers shut down the April 20th ceremony.

But one of those flyers came to my attention when I was editor of High Times, and I immediately made 4:20 a central part of everything I was doing, which included The Freedom Fighters, the Cannabis Cup, the WHEE! festivals, and my daily routine at High Times.

Ghost Tokers in the Sky

(To the tune of “Ghost Riders in the Sky”)

A wake’n’ baker went walking one dark and windy day
He rested on a ridge, he passed along the way
A giant hookah came flyin’, o’r the hills above the town
He saw the smoke a comin’ and heard the strangest sound

hippie hi o, hippie hi a, it’s the ghost tokers in the sky

The buds had just been fired, and still looked nice and green
They dripped with oily resin, just like High Times magazine
His heart was stuck by fear as the hookah thundered by
‘Cause he saw the tokers comin’ and heard their mornful cry

hippie hi o, hippie hi a, it’s the ghost tokers in the sky

Their faces gaunt, their eyes all red, their shirts all soaked in sweat
They’re tryin’ hard to catch a buzz, but they ain’t caught one yet
They’re doomed to toke forever, but never will get high
chained to a fire-snorting hookah, as they fly by hear ’em cry

hippie hi o, hippie hi a, it’s the ghost tokers in the sky

As they flew on by he heard, one call out his name
“If you want to save your soul from hell, you better change your ways!
Cut down on constant smoking, or with us you will ride
And you will toke forever, and never will get high!”

hippie hi o, hippie hi a, it’s the ghost tokers in the sky

(copyright Steven Hager 2011)

A hippie looks at 60

(To the tune of “A Pirate Looks at 40” by Jimmy Buffett)
Mother, Mother planet
you make me feel so small
spring, summer, winter procession
and, of course the fall
We’ve done it all
We’ve seen it all

Now the winter worsens
birds fall from the sky
fish and frogs are dyin’
the bees are cryin’
what the hell is goin’ on?
somethin’s wrong
somethin’s wrong

Yes, I am a hippie
60 years too late
don’t tell the neighbors
or put it on facebook but
I used to live in the Haight

ran away to the Haight

got schooled in the Haight

Well, I’ve done my share of smokin’
inhaled my share of grass
breathed enough tar and gases
to fill a zillion bags
never meant to last
never meant to last

And I have been stoned now
for over ten years
rolling fatty after fatty
and drinkin’ some beer
but I need to stop smokin’
I’m practically chokin’
Need to stop smokin’
maybe, just a few days
for just a few days
(instrumental solo)

I go for sour diesel
or chemdog when I can find it
long as it’s kind bud
organic and well cured
you know, the super kind
just takes some time
just takes some time

Mother Mother planet
After all the years I’ve found
an occupational hazard is
when an occupation’s just not around
feel like I’m down
gotta head uptown
I feel like I’m down
gonna head uptown
(sound of vaporizer bag filling as music fades out)
copyright Steven Hager 2011

Who is Steven Hager and what did he have to do with 420?

I’m a writer, journalist, filmmaker, event producer and counterculture and cannabis activist, and was born and raised in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois.

My first start-up was in 1965. I created The Cap’n Crunch Courier, a humor xerox zine given away free at Urbana Junior High. Three years later, I created The Tin Whistle, a monthly newspaper eventually distributed in four high schools in Central Illinois. I obtained a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Theater (Playwriting) and a Masters of Science in Journalism, both from the University of Illinois. After graduation, I moved to New York City, worked for a number of magazines before becoming a reporter for the New York Daily News. During this time, I began researching the hip hop movement of the South Bronx and sold my original story Beat Street to Harry Belafonte, and the film with the same name was distributed by Orion Pictures. In 1984, St. Martins’ Press released my book, Hip Hop, the first history of rap music, break dancing and graffiti art. I followed that book with Art After Midnight, an examination of the New York club scene and its influence on artists, primarily Jean-Michel Basquiat, Keith Haring and Kenny Scharf.

In 1988, I was hired as editor of High Times magazine where I created the Cannabis Cup, the world’s most famous cannabis awards ceremony, and the Freedom Fighters, the first hemp legalization group. I also created a garage-rock revival band called the Soul Assassins (check out the music at http://theoriginalsoulassassins….). In 1990 I began promoting 420 as a counterculture ceremony and played a leading role in spreading the 420 phenomenon around the globe. For 15 years, I regularly appeared at college campuses as part of a debate on the legalization of cannabis, alongside former New York DEA chief Robert Stutman. The event, known as “Heads versus Feds,” began in 2001 and visited more than 350 colleges in fifteen years, regularly drawing standing-room crowds. Bob and I became known as “The Ultimate Odd Couple,” and have became friends despite the cultural gap between us.

The national hemp group I created in the late 1980s, The Freedom Fighters, held council at 4:20 PM for years before the numerology caught on and we successfully snatched the flag and Liberty Boy spirit from President Reagan (until the Tea Party snatched it back decades later). I blogged very little for the first year or so, but a couple years into it, I began using the blog primarily to share my deep political research. Some recently told me my title had become misleading because it’s not a blog about cannabis per se, although the disappearance of cannabis from religion is the major conspiracy I’m currently researching. Just a long-winded explanation for why I changed the blog name today. The tin or penny whistle was one of the most inexpensive melodic instruments invented and sold for a penny in England in the nineteenth century. It’s appropriate because I am a whistleblower on intel’s Tin Foil Hat Patrol. And please don’t get scared by the truth. The oligarchies have been running the show since the dawn of civilization, and true democracy may never appear in our time, but that doesn’t mean we can’t chart a course for future generations to follow. Without an understanding of political realities, there is no enlightenment. And enlightenment is fun.