LOOKING FOR A LIGHT

The suicide of Hunter S. Thompson made me ponder the fact that way
more people do some sort of drug these days than did at the height of
the author's gonzo fame. Does it follow that more of us are headed,
like Thompson, for a self-directed exit?

Distinctions must be drawn, of course. There are the legal drugs, like
Ritalin and beta blockers, used to push people toward a socially
acceptable bandwidth of consciousness and behaviour.

Then there are the intoxicants, like crack and the ever-so-legal
alcohol, both of which ultimately obliterate consciousness. It's
another story with the psychedelics, like LSD, for which Thompson was
best known. Dubbed mind expanders, these drugs are said to raise
self-awareness and summon feelings of religious or mystical
connection. If acid remained Thompson's chief chemical influence, I
have to wonder if seeing his world all too clearly was what drove him
to leave it.

Coincidentally, Thompson blew his brains out just as I was testing
salvia, a psychedelic derived from the leaves of the salvia divinorum
plant. Once again, my Moondoggie duties placed me in potentially
career-limiting territory. I can no longer face, without blushing, an
interview question such as, "Is there anything in your past that could
embarrass the Minister?"

However, I hasten to add that this particular substance is
uncontrolled (that is, not illegal) and available at stores like The
Hemp Company on Yonge. That's where $50 bought me a gram, enough for
five hits, according to the guy behind the counter.

I also bought a two-chamber water pipe for about another $50, because
the strange properties of salvia demand swift and sure ingestion. Your
body instantly develops a tolerance to the drug, so to achieve the
desired effect -- and even that lasts only 30 minutes, on average --
you need to smoke fast and hard. My upbeat salesman suggested a
butane-fuelled lighter or even a kitchen mini-blowtorch, like the ones
celebrity chefs and crackheads use, because salvia is most potent when
vaporized at high heat.

"It's not a party drug," he cautioned. Think self-discovery, keep the
lights low, maybe put on some comforting music. I asked if I might be
in for the sort of out-of-body experience I'd heard about. He sounded
cheerily doubtful, and his best advice was, "Go in with a question."

Always the ill-prepared scientist, I forgot to choose a question and
resorted to plain old bar matches, despite cautions from a helpful
website. It insisted, in capital letters a bat could see, "DON'T USE
MATCHES."

But I did, nearly burning a hole in my forehead because I was holding
the pipe incorrectly. I didn't keep the flame to the pipe bowl, as
directed, and my second big haul kicked off a session of full-throated
coughing and drooling. Ah, the glamour of drug use.

A fleeting rush of transformation lasted all of 30 seconds. Within 10
minutes, I wanted a sandwich, which I believe is the exact opposite of
an out-of-body experience.

Days later, after discovering a curious number of smoke shops that
sell butane fuel but not butane lighters, I ended up at Honest Ed's.
They had the real deal, but I was bewitched by a Zippo, which I later
realized does not use butane. Having already spent about $130, I could
see no kitchen blowtorch in my future.

But even with the Zippo, things worked better. Those brief sensations
returned as physical force beams struck my body from the front -- not
at all frightening, but kind of interesting.

I was soon lying down, as suggested by the friendly website, with my
eyes closed. I felt as if a quick but vital meeting had been held
among the ruling voices in my head, and I'd heard only a
fast-forgotten snatch.

Then my conscious mind ruined everything. I wondered what I was going
to write about, which will kill any buzz. But for hours I was
pleasantly reflective, casting back to my own LSD period of nearly two
decades past. I had been intrigued in part by acid's reputed power to
re-imprint; I even took one hit with the secret goal of forever
altering my homosexuality. So much for that.

A few years later, I read Storming Heaven: LSD and the American Dream. First
published in 1987, it's a meticulously researched, clear-headed and nicely
literary popular history that encompasses corporate America, the Beats and
the '60s counterculture. It's still in print and sells a few thousand copies
a year, so I was able to contact the author, Jay Stevens.

"The suicide of Hunter Thompson is complex and has a lot more to do
with the traditional reasons why artists kill themselves," he told me.
"But make no mistake, the moral outrage that fuelled his work had to
make living in the age of Bush damn near unbearable."

That was just part of my absorbing exchange with a man who interviewed
all the living '60s luminaries as he wrote this exhaustive work. Come
back in two weeks to find out which generation got the most out of
LSD, and what Stevens makes of today's drug culture. The answers may
blow your mind.