Attack of the Show has just wrapped two days prior to my Jamaica departure. I was reaching for my badge and car keys when word traveled through the stale studio air that mushrooms were legal on the island. Instantaneously, with fiendishly Pavlovian flair, my already outstretched arm craned toward a keyboard to the side of me seeking answers. My thumb, middle finger and pinky simultaneously lowered with the precision and poise of a jazz-handed ballerina into "Windows Log-In Position"; without looking, I mashed the required keys, logged in, and pleaded for the almighty Google to confirm the shroomy-rumor still swirling about my ear canal.
According to "Internet", if I dared to combine the thought of legal fungi and Rastafari, I was probably going to be locked in a cramped pet-porter kennel and poked with sticks of sugar cane for the rest of my miserable existence. Psilocybin was illegal, an outright island "no-no", and I simply had to resist any and all temptation to seek it out.
"Fine. Fair enough. You know what, it's probably for the better!" I thought. Hell, the last time I dabbled with anything remotely psychedelic I ended up proclaiming I was made of liquid, calling friends to ask if I was still in my apartment, and burning my hand while trying to figure out if candles really emit light or if they "are the mathematical inverse, and actually devour the darkness that truly surrounds us."
Side note: I'm an idiot.
Just so we're all on the same page.
Cue two days later, a Sun-sunny-Sunday in Jamaica, when I hear that not only are mushrooms legal on the island, but we're actually visiting a world-famous Mushroom Tea shop for our "420 Special"! My eyes rolled in their sockets like reels on a clunky mechanical slot-machine; triple shrooms, JACKPOT! Like a shamanistic Toucan-Sam, I spent the next day floating around, nose first; excitedly following our production van to a ramshackle shoebox-of-a-shack on the side of a bustling windy road.
The "World Famous Ms Brown's", read the faded, sun-scared paint on the pockmarked wood paneling.
When my feet touched the scorched earth outside the entrance, I leapt into the air several times. I tried to play it off as half leg-stretch and half energy triggering mechanism, but it was simply a childishly outward expression of the juvenile joy surging through my brain. Here I was, meters away, from legally procuring what I hoped would lead to a tale-and-a-half; precious memories of "that time I shroomed" the white sandy beaches of Jamaica.
Olivia paced softly rehearsing her lines for the Tea House package while our crew buzzed about, setting up lights and shooting signage.
I stepped inside.
And found nothing.
The place was four walls, three barstools and a mini-fridge with some Pepsi bottles that had their safety-seals cracked. The only points of interest inside the joint came in the form of a wall full of dull, poorly framed photos and a
wooden bead-curtain (which actually provided minutes of entertainment).
After my initial disappointment, I was greeted by the shops proprietor Bernard, who wore the warm weathered face of a man who had been sampling his own product for well over thirty years. His cheeks buckled and bounced under the strain of his mile-wide grin, his pores slowly bled thick beads of sweat that he wiped occasionally with a white handkerchief, and the thick red-veins in his milky eyes branched and darted sharply in multiple directions like a bloodshot New York subway map. He giggled in-between breaths and offered "Ya Mon's" in the same way a sixteen year old valley girl infuses sentences with "like" and "uhm".
I guess like, you could say, I like, uhm... liked Bernard?
Yes, despite the surroundings, I trusted him immediately. He spoke openly and honestly about his little shroomy grow farm. He explained the different types of mushrooms sold on-site and their effects. He showed us how he actually brews the mushroom tea in an undoubtedly tetanus-infested steel pot, and described his daily dosage (two cups of "2X strength" every evening).
The shoot eventually wrapped and thanks to a tight schedule, there was only time to lend my designer-knockoff sunglasses to a
curious local boy, teach him to "work it" and snap a quick photo. We had to get back to the hotel. I reluctantly waddled back to the shuttle, kicking rocks along the way. I felt like a child being dragged out of Disneyland by his parents. I wanted to ride Space Mountain damnit! At least give me a Churro or some Dipp'n Dots as a souvenir!
<Darth> "Nooooooooooo!" </Vader>
I cried out for one of our producers (a long-time buddy of mine) to, "take care of me". I assured him I'd pay him back at the hotel. He nodded and minutes later I restlessly waded into the salty waters behind our hotel to await his return.
I tossed a flowery mini-football with friends to pass the time. I watched the sun sink closer to the sea as the horizon began to extinguish its' fiery gaze. Then, from a distance, a dusk-lit-figure approached with a black plastic bag in hand and hailed me towards the shore. My producer buddy had returned from his trip and was Baywatch-trotting in slow motion toward the water's edge like a tank-topped lifeguard. Only his little orange life saving ring had miraculously morphed into two bottles of "Double Strength Tea" and a handful of "on the house" dried stems and caps.
I raced from the beach and stashed the goods into the beat-up mini-fridge in my room. Because I'm somewhat professional and refuse to party on school-nights (save for one or three admitted lapses in judgment throughout my six years on camera) I knew I would have to wait a minimum of three days before partaking in any mind altering madness.
That day finally arrived, and is an entirely different tale for another time. But assuming you're interested in the Cliff's Notes, they read something like this:
About an hour had passed and I found myself relaxed, fully reclined upon a fluffy blue cotton beach towel; the golden tendrils of the mid-day sun pierced effortlessly through my skin, warming and massaging each individual cell in my energized body. I surveyed the sky, taking notice of the thick layers of black, parallax scrolling, brooding clouds rolling dutifully across the sky. I knew they signaled an impending and severe change in weather, yet I was firmly entrenched. Bonded molecule by molecule between a melting chaise lounge and the Earth itself. This was my experience. I giggled. Come hell or high water I was not moving. And come they did.
The sun battled valiantly, yet was quickly swallowed by the storm. The sky tore in half. Buckets of tropical golf-ball-sized rain poured from the heavens and sent beach dwellers scrambling madly for shelter. Palms buckled, violently slapping the rooftops under the pressure of gale force winds. Individual grains of sand blasted relentlessly into the side of my body and I felt an icy trickle of water penetrate the seal between headphone and ear.
I removed a pair of sunglasses from my bag, gave each ear bud a firm press into their respective canal, adjusted the volume accordingly, and smiled.
That smile, would last for hours.
04.07.08 -- 11:18 PM -- PHOTO UPDATE
Bernard and Me
Psychedelic Stew
Sniffing Said Stew
Bonus Beaded Curtain Madness
Sep 17, 2008
