Not Drugs – Art, Graffiti, Music and Culture for the Almost Grown-Up

Number 10: Build a snow man.

Snow men aren’t necessarily Christian. Frosty was a Jew–though he kept that under wraps as much as possible–you know how it is in Hollywood. If you’re living in the East, building a snow man is no problem. Just like–you know, go outside and build a snow man.

For those of us living on the breast coast–this is a little bit harder of a task to tackle, but rewarding in the end.
Step One: buy an old freezer off craigslist.
Step Two: Lay the freezer on its back and plug it in.
Step Three: Line the inside of the freezer with butter or NON stick cooking spray (you’re going to really want to find that NON-stick kind).
Step Four: Fill it with water.
Step Five: wait four days.
Step Six: Remove the large block of ice from the freezer.
Step Seven: using a cheese grater, shave the block of ice down to a pile of “snow flakes.” (you’re going to have to do this very quickly).
Step Eight: Quickly assemble the snowman.
Step Nine: Enjoy a job well done.

Number 9: Wassail

Wassailing’s not just for the goys. In fact, its roots are not rooted in Jesus worship, but in roots. Wassail is a contraction of 2 Middle English words wæs and hæil, meaning “be healthy.” The original meaning of wassail was to go into apple orchards and sing songs of good health to the trees. So go sing to some trees.

Number 8: Sit in a darkened apartment and drink from an old bottle of gin.

Number 7: Don’t cry.

Number 6: Go to the store and buy some milk.

Mumbuer 5: There’s probably something good on the Discovery channel.

Number 4: A favorite tradition of non-christian individuals looking to enjoy a holiday not meant for them is to eat some chinese food. If you’re in the LA area I highly suggest Yang Chow on N. Broadway in China Town. I had the Yang Chow lamb last time I went. I am totally serious: that was the best fucking piece of lamb I’ve ever put in my mouth.

Number 3: Solve the Hodge Conjecture:

Have at it.

Number 2: Binaurals

Number 1: Go see Avatar.

Roland Burris retooled Clement Clarke Moore’s famous Twas the Night Before Christmas in order to get his point across about health care to the members of the Senate. It got a lot of media attention, and maybe struck a chord in the hearts of the little Christian boys that live inside of each and every GOP senator’s pants soul.

Watch it here.

Dr. Soos’ half brother, Wade Cartright, a homophobic racist preacher from west Alabama, did his own rendition of Moore’s masterpiece and read it for the annual Christmas gathering at the local Elk lodge. Full text below. Enjoy!

Twas the day after Chanukah and all through the land

Not a creature was stirring; not beast, child nor man.

The lights had gone out and the latkes were eaten,

on a corner somewhere, a little black boy was beaten.

But this is not a story about Raekwon al Rashim

not about the Mozel Tov fairy nor Yitzach Rabin.

This is the tale of a dreary young lad,

who dealt drugs in Alaska because he hated his dad.

A sad tale indeed, of Bob Rubenstein–

“Bobby the winner,” once upon a time.

It all changed when his father, Shlomo the butcher, was found-out

to be the murderous killer who’d been lurking about.

He killed without mercy, without joy, without tact

Unlike Hannibal Lecter, it was taste that he lacked.

He’d kill and kill and murder some more;

a Jewish American Princess, 3 mimes, twice a whore.

But, again, this story is not about Shlomo

It’s about his son, Bobby, the drug-dealing homo.

He flew to Alaska when his dad was arraigned

to peddle marijuana, heroine and cocaine.

The Eskimo people were all but taken

by Bobby’s charm, his drugs, and the way he sliced bacon.

Breakfasts at noon, lunch at half-past four.

Dinner at seven, but they’d eat some more…

all into the night, the Eskimos ate,

fueled by Bob’s pot, man it was great.

“Bobby,” they’d say, “your pot, it’s so good…”

Bobby would smile and tighten his hood.

“I’m glad you like it,” he’d turn and say in his way, “now I must be going, though I wish I could stay.”

The Eskimos pleaded with Bob Rubenstein

To stay in their land and have a good time.

Good times were gone, though, for young Bobby R,

He’d ran from his home, his girl and his car.

All he had now was his tiny igloo

a Tranny named Footsie, and a cold, icy loo.

Through was this lad with strange sex, cold food and ass cheeks

He had to get home, he’d been there for weeks.

So he jumped on a walrus and sailed 20 days

over the bearing straight, to the land of the gays.

In San Fran he has been for the past 24 years,

Enjoying good light, sour dough and the queers.

The moral of the story is found in this rhyme:

If your dad is a serial killer, best learn to 69.

The end.

The people I talk to, which are by no means an accurate cross-section of the population, seem to vary on their expectations of James Camron’s Avatar. They either love the idea or think it “sounds fucking stupid.”

Whatever you’re feelings are about it, the fact is this movie is a revolutionary addition to the realm of cinema–one that will positively change the industry forever–and I’m not talking about the blue dudes, the camera technology, or the special effects. Actually, I’m talking about all three, but not in the way you’re thinking. Sure the FX will be stunning, the fantastical world–fantastic, but in the combination of these elements (plus the 3D factor) is hwood’s first built-in anti-piracy technique, making it nearly impossible for pirates to reproduce and distribute the film in a marketable fashion. With current movie-viewing technology, the only way to view this movie will be in specially designated 3D theaters, with 3D glasses, and a DD girl to your right.

The girl part’s not true. But the rest is. Reads about it.

ref:
NPR

Fuck Yeah.

ref:
Apple

This site is all about NotDrugs–coffee, ambien, and ritalin are all drugs.  So how can this be reconciled?–Even we here at ND get tired, can’t fall asleep, or need a blast of focus juice.  The answer: Binaural Beats.  Calculated noise that can actually program your brain to think it has just received a cup of coffee, a sleeping pill, focus medicine, and a wide array of other traditionally drug-related effects.

This technology has been around since the late 1800s, but with the advent of the internet, ProTools, and sick headphones what can now be done with Binaurals is mind boggling.
This crazy sound might sound crazy. It is.  It works.

This site’s got what you need (click the little play buttons):

There are also an array of binaural iPhone apps.  I like the free BinauralBeat.  You can customize your own beats to meet specific specs.  iBrainWave SE is also free.  The better ones cost between $2.99 and $3.99–cheaper than a 5-hour energy shot…

Be weird.

Ref:
i-dose

Lil’ Wayne’s current situation could end up affecting my job.  I’m contractually prohibited from getting into the ins and outs of how and why this might or might not be/already is or isn’t a potentially damaging situation.  But aside from that small issue, I need to disagree with my associate, Mr. Letham.

Lil’ Wayne–prison for life?  It can’t happen.  I’m sorry to disagree, and I won’t do so without providing some reasoning to my position, but I must.

The man is one of the world’s few true geniuses.  Forget that he guzzles a few bottles of the ‘tussin, smokes 11 blunts, and ingests god-knows whatever else per day –it further proves that his lyrical prodigy is a tenacious ice boat carving its way through vast, thick layers of inebriated permafrost.  He is the U.S.S. Fucked-Up Floe, but he can still bring it at 4:30 in the morning after a night of drugs and sizzurp until cute, sexy mama from the club turns into Barbara Streisand slathered in Vaseline and you just gotta get out of bed and into the studio.

The man is a scholar and is responsible for numerous additions to the lexicon.  Tryna, previously a jumble of consonants, the letter ‘a,’ and a sometimes-vowel, now means something because of Weazy.  Tryna is such a complex notion of a word, that it can only be defined within a sentence such as the following from Lil’ Wayne’s ‘Game-Dope-Game’:

I’m all about my cake; I’m tryna marry Betty Crocker.

Further reasoning:
Wayne is a man of God, well-versed in the holy texts of most human religions.  Take the following set of lyrics, drawn from some of today’s most popular belief systems:

Christianity:

" Baby I can bless you when you ain't sneezin' "

Hinduism–Meditation on the Caste System:

"I know my role and I play it well."

Judaism-Quoting God:

"I do what I do and you do what you can do about it."

The Mormon Persuasion:

"When I started flirtin' with the hustle, failure became my ex. Now I'm engaged to the game and married to success."

Heaven’s Gate:

"Keep your mouth closed and let your eyes listen."

Fundamentalist Islam:

"I'm the bomb like - tickk. tick."

His meditations into his own personal psyche resonate true for all of human kind:

Rock star shit for my rock star ass
Got a tub full of money that’s a rock star bath
Then I use more money to wipe my rock star ass
Then I throw it in the garbage that rock star trash

So what, he owns a gun?

Aunt Gary

My aunt Gary owns a gun, and he knows what she’s doing with it, so why not let Wayne be Wayne? — Roaming free like the Buffalo of days gone by.  You don’t want to kill more Buffalo, do you Wayne haters?  Do you?

Go Yankees.

This is why Halloween beats Christmas:

She's skinny, she's white, she can't sing; get off the stage, you talentless ghost.

HE WAS RIGHT:

So Hot.

This is the goriest shit I’ve ever seen.  A promising nugget of a trailer for those of us who like to feel our small intestine recoil through our stomachs and have a seat just at the apex of our digestive tract.

Enjoy!

So I was hired over the weekend to cook hors-d’œuvres at a star-studded Hollywood get-together. Due to confidentiality agreements and a death-threat veiled as a warm embrace, I cannot disclose where this was nor who was in attendance.

It's Always the Little Ones...

–Actually, that’s a lie. No death threat, no agreement, but who wants to drop names?–so faux pas.

faux pas faux pénis

The night went well, nobody died of salmonella, and I got a number of compliments on one dish in particular that I’d like to share with the ND community to serve up at your next celebrity bash.

What you’ll need:

I. A few pounds of Kobe Beef Fillet Mignon (if you don’t have $300+ to spend on meat, you can go with some Top Loin, or even sirloin).

II. Grill Seasoning (most grocery stores sell some variety of gourmet grill seasoning)

a. To make your own seasoning combine: 3 table spoons Black Pepper, 1 tbsp Kosher Salt, 1 tbsp Onion Powder, 1 tbsp Garlic Powder, 1 tbsp Ground Coriander, I teaspoon rosemary, 1 tsp thyme, 1 tsp Crushed Red Pepper flakes

III. Pure Olive Oil (fuck the extra virgin shit)

IV. A baguette

Ok, onto the recipe:

Heat your grill to med. temperature, and your oven to 250°F

Slice the baguette into thin pieces (about 1/4 inch thick)

Lay them out on a baking sheet, drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with thyme, paprika, crushed pepper flakes (whatever you want, really). Remember, use pure olive oil–No extra virgin.

Pop those into the oven set at 250°F for about 7 minutes, until lightly toasted.

Divine Intervention Tastes Like Crap--Go with Pure Olive Oil!

Now brush the steaks with olive oil and dust with the grill seasoning.

Slap those fuckers on the grill for about 3 minutes per side (It should be nice and bloody inside)

Take them off of the grill and let them sit for about 5 minutes.

Slice the Fillets into wafer-thin strips.

Pile 2 or 3 pieces onto each toasted baguette.

Arrange on a platter.

It should look Similar to this:

mmm mmmm...

Next, find an indentured servant and ask him to carry it around to the party guests.

Accept all of the compliments, drink some wine, and go home without worry that you’ve accidentally poisoned your celebrity guests.

Go to sleep.

Wake up and have yourself a shower.

Belittle your dog’s intelligence.

Have a nap.

Bon Ape Tit.

-Dave