I was in Richmond the other day weathering the boasts of an ex-pat Austinite who swore seven times over that his homeland lead all the world when it came to getting your bottom dollar for hallucinogenic experiences.
It seemed that the place was brimming over with so much excess fungi and acids that he'd had to drag some of them up towards the more hallucinogenically depleted regions of our big fug nation in order to make room for the endless font that spouts out of the capitol dome and down Congress in the greatest state of Texas, spreading like a prairie fire through the suburbs and the plains and leading directly to not only 13th Floor Elevators and Indian Jewelry but numerous subsets of psychedelic melt and paralytic head zone freakout such that Austin's Telepathik Friend is merely pulling a fruit off the tree that's grown thick and copious with outerworldly trance and drone and chant, making it sound effortless, perhaps because it is with a little help from big, addled electronics filling out the void.
