Mescaline

White Line Fever: A Prelude to Valentine’s Day

White Line Fever

I want to hold your hand

(The Beatles)

One night I was reveling in the sounds of my favorite Country and Western tunes, when my room mate Michael walked in and started an unsolicited critique of this particular musical venue.

  • How can you listen to that crap? It’s so cheesy and maudlin. Then worse, they layer on that silly Hawaiian guitar. This music has no redeeming value whatsoever

At that point in time my favorite singers included the likes of George Jones, Tammy Wynette, Conway Twitty, Loretta Lynn, Merle Haggard, Waylon Jennings and Buck Owens.

I explained to Michael that this type of music was meant to be maudlin, tear jerking, common and base because it spoke for millions of people who led ordinary, simple lives. It spoke to their every day struggles, their everyday hopes and fears, and their everyday life experiences especially when it came to matters of the heart.

In particular, it was directed to people who suffered hardship, who had blue collar jobs, who liked to drink, who cheated on their spouses, whose spouses cheated on them, and who had occasionally run afoul of the law.

It was all about hard driving, hard living, hard drinking, hard loving and hard working ordinary men and women.

As far as the steel guitar was concerned, I explained that playing a National Pedal Steel was incredibly difficult and that the whining or staccato refrains provided vital counterpoint to the vocal lyrics.

In telling Michael he was a bigoted, closed mind effete snob, I then set out to prove him wrong.

Realizing that conventional logic would not hold sway, the only alternative left was to drug him as I set the stage for a possible epiphany. So, one late Saturday afternoon after we took some mescaline it seemed that was as good a time as any other. Suggesting that we should take a ride in the country, we set out down the Massachusetts turnpike for Springfield.

I was the driver, and one of the rules of long distance driving is that the driver always gets to pick the music.

Asking him to be patient, I started playing Country music suggesting that he envision us being long haul truckers, high on amphetamines, hours away from our intended destination, with our loving but lonely or bored wife or girlfriend left behind for some predatory bar fly to attempt sweet talking her into bed.

As the drug began to take effect, the music worked its charm on the previously suppressed temporal lobe of Michael’s pre-biased brain, then as the alternating dashed and solid white lines of the highway whizzed by, visually reinforcing Merle Haggard’s song about the road paint that separates the lanes, he suddenly without further provocation shouted:

  • I get it. Now I get it! This stuff is really good.

Then whenever the steel guitar played short counter pointing bursts behind the whiney vocals, he smiled, twitched his fingers and forearms in synch as though he might be faking the onset of a grand mal seizure while shouting out:

  • Drit-draht-drit-draht-drit-draht-droogin.

This vignette reminded of the time in the tenth grade when our social studies teacher began a ranting soliloquy in front of the class asking repeatedly who could tell him how any one of us sitting in the room on that very day could immediately make a million dollars.

We were stupefied. After all, we were only in the tenth grade and it was 1963. How could any one of us even dream of making such an unimaginable sum as one million dollars?

He then prompted us by asking what was the unifying theme of all the current rock and roll music we were raging over while parents scolded or attempted to censor their daughters new love for the greased up male icons they were gah-gah swooning over. He ranted:

  • Forget the swiveling hips. What’s the same old thing that repeatedly comes out of their mouths?

Once again, the class was stymied.

  • It’s all about maudlin sentimentality. It’s all about falling in and out of love, and getting a boyfriend or losing a girlfriend, and dreaming about a perfect relationship with a perfect person, or getting back at the guy who stole your girl, and getting dates, or your mother or father hating the guy or girl you bring home and about crying over a lot of spilt milk. You people know what it’s all about. You’re living it. I’m too old and I don’t get it. So, if you want to make a million dollars just go home tonight and write a rock and roll love song.

Everyone thought he was nuts, but obviously, he was just a little bit ahead of the curve.

None of us wrote that song.

Other people did.

Other people made millions and millions of dollars.

These great singers and song writers in doing so then made the millions of people who listened to their ballads more significantly tied to their emotions than they already were. Whether for better or for worse, they gave much greater meaning, depth and understanding to lives that otherwise would have been empty or lost or without a rationalizing raison-d’être… if it were not for the music.

 

love

 

He said I’ll love you till I die

She told him you’ll forget in time

And as the years went slowly by

She still prayed upon his mind

He kept her picture on his wall

Went half crazy now and then

He still loved her through it all

Hoping she’d come back again.

Kept some letters by his bed

Dated nineteen and sixty two

He had underlined in red

Every single “I love you”

He stopped loving her today

They placed a wreath upon his door

And soon they’ll carry him away.

He stopped loving her today 

(George Jones)

Off Campus 1968 : Big Funk

Big Funk  

In 1968 after one year of living together, my girlfriend and I split up as did Courtney and Bill. I guess it was a pretty good thing after all that I was not a young parent: not so much for my sake, but for that of the child. No one involved would have had any kind of reasonable life.

As we were all contemplating going our own ways, Arthur suddenly reappeared on the scene.

One year of living in San Francisco as a flower child had cured him of the romance associated with having a low paying job, living in a roach infested flat, and running around with a group of air headed friends who had nothing better to offer than to chant mantras in a community park, get high on drugs, paint their faces, wear 1880’s clothing, protest the war, talk to plants, wave the peace sign, and annoy the rest of the world with a tedious tendency to repeatedly sing Kumbaya. He realized that going to Law School would undoubtedly pan out as a better long-term personal goal.

Having nothing better to do and no better place to go, I agreed to look for a rental house, which he and two other friends, Steve and Hutch agreed to share. We found an old four-bedroom single story family home on the outskirts of the campus that would allow us to walk to school. My share of the rent was twenty-five dollars a month.

Four guys living together sounded like a good idea, but after a very short time, we were too much in each other’s way, so Steve and Hutch decided to split. Steve was an accomplished photographer who worked for the school newspaper while Hutch became better known as being a radical campus agitator. There was nothing bitter about splitting up and everyone stayed in close contact.

Arthur was obsessed with naming the house because he thought it would lend character as well as good karma to the place. Of course his word would ultimately be the final one and being inspired by The Band’s first album “Music from Big Pink,” which commemorated the pink house near Woodstock where it was recorded, he settled on the name “Big Funk.”

Although we started with a street number on Lancaster Street to let our friends know our geographic location, it was not long before the house became a legend in its own right and no longer just another mailbox location. Everyone in our social milieu came to know it as Big Funk and everyone knew where it was.

Being decorated both inside as well as out with hippie icons, then sporting a large ‘Peace’ symbol on the front wall, with a toilet seat cover draped around the porch light, Big Funk progressively became a central gathering and party place for the fringe element of the university. Its unusual exterior decor in the middle of a relatively low-income residential zone also made it a stand out target for the ire of the local redneck population. A picture of Chairman Mao on the porch wall did little to help the cause either.

One of our favorite weekend pastimes happened to be to smoking pot and playing our favorite records while watching TV with the sound turned off. We used to muse; ‘why doesn’t someone create a TV channel for potheads where you just get to look at visual images while your favorite songs are playing?’ Someone else apparently thought it was a great idea as well when he started MTV and got rich while boneheads like us did nothing proactive.

On one of those weekend evenings as we were sitting in the front living room during a particularly loud-record-silent-TV-session, a local element of the KKK drove by and heaved a brick through one of the front windows. The brick was wrapped with a paper note containing crude threats and Swastikas that made it clear in no uncertain terms how these men felt about our presence. Although we were at the same time shocked, highly insulted and incensed, I do not believe in our naïve stupidity that we realized just how lucky we were not to have been burned out or abducted for a nice quiet lynching. The brick could just as easily have been a Molotov cocktail and the little paper ties holding the note to the brick could just as easily have been long lanky nooses.

At least after that episode we were smart enough to tone down some of the exterior décor and to confine the hippie stuff to the interior, the focal point of which became known as the famous Big Funk Barrel. This barrel was an old oak crate that served initially as a simple TV stand but as time went by we chalked it up with erasable graffiti, apropos to current events; with the only graffiti listed as sacred and untouchable being the one commemorating the great 1968 Super Bowl victory of the New York Jets over the Baltimore Colts.

The rest of the inexpensive décor equally reflected our student poverty as it was makeshift, or purchased third or fourth hand. Rock posters, posters of Indian Gods like Shiva, or psychedelic art decorated the walls and paisley print sheets served as window drapes, tapestries or sofa covers. In retrospect the color clashes were incredibly nightmarish but ‘au courant’ contemporary in the eyes of our peers.

These peers comprised some of the campus political fringe element, which congregated together and sometimes “hung out” at Big Funk. They were interesting from the point of view that although in outward appearance they all may have mimicked the Haight-Ashbury air-headed flower children, they were still on the inside the high scoring SAT students who would eventually become the political and social leaders of our generation. Ironically many of us did a complete turn around and eventually then went on to spearhead the early phases of the social phenomenon that would later come to be known as the overly consumptive, prestige and proprietary label oriented ‘Yuppie.”

Money, prestige and social power has a funny way of changing one’s outlook on life, but in those days we were still polarized by all the issues surrounding the Viet Nam War as well as being closely tied to the champions of the Civil Rights movement or the revolutionary campus leaders who wanted to overthrow the U.S. Government.

One of the things that actually jump-started the reputation of the house and expanded its social circle was the fact that Arthur decided he wanted to make some easy money, so he began to import LSD, THC and Mescaline from his former California connections. These drugs arrived in huge quantities that he then quickly re-sold for a mark up to lower level campus drug dealers such that before the hand off there would occasionally be bags of a thousand THC or mescaline capsules in our refrigerator.

I also had the unique experience of being exposed to the rare and highly prized predictably high quality proprietary branded Owsley Acid tablets before Owsley got busted and the technology shifted to blotting the drug onto paper strips or sugar cubes; along with the drug quality and predictability of the dosing going south at the same time. Along with the LSD guru Timothy Leary’s philosophy on life, acid quality also died a quiet death too.

Fortunately for my peace of mind, after pulling off a few big deals I was very much relieved that Arthur was smart enough to get out of the wholesale drug business while the getting was good. He finally became convinced that the reward was not worth the risk and having taken an interest in photography was happy enough to have purchased a high-end 35 mm camera with the profits.

It was bad enough that the KKK targeted the place, but having it targeted by the police or by someone else who might want to steal some of the goods or profits did not make it easy for me to sleep well at night.

Once again, I also did not want to be drug busted, even though hopefully it would only have been guilt by association. I just never had enough balls to be a dealer. Being the kind of person who could never even get away with lying to my mother, this would make me an automatic set up to be the guy who gets busted on his first attempted deal because the client happens to be an undercover cop.

My friend from the Irving Hotel, Brad, learned this lesson the hard way several years later when he and his wife became small time drug dealers in Springfield and were robbed at gunpoint by one of their clients. The bad guy took both the merchandise as well as all the cash leaving Brad and his wife luckily intact with their lives. Easy come, easy go.

Just the simple exposure to access introduced the big problem of temptation. Having such a huge inventory of these drugs available made me completely understand why Adam broke down and ate the apple. He did it because it was there.

So when it came to the threshold of using or abstaining from personal drug trials my will to resist being little better than our first father, caused me to cave in. However rather than hard core capitulation or a propensity to abuse and dependence, when it came to drugs my mantra soon became “Just say maybe.”

By the time I graduated I had tired some of the finest grade hallucinogenic drugs that the west Coast had to offer. I also had the opportunity to try some of the worst drugs available in the local cult circuit, such as Paregoric soaked cigarettes or crushed dried banana peels; the latter being a gross hippie misinterpretation of what Donovan meant by his popular song, “Mellow Yellow.”

Some really stupid friends, interpreting the song as delivering yet another subliminal message, even tried to smoke saffron. Just think about how that would feel going down your trachea and into your lungs. Meanwhile Donovan may have only been referring to the color of his bedroom drapes, or more likely to his experience with a prior case of hepatic jaundice, meaning that good liner notes would have spared everyone a lot of wasted emotional energy and speculation.

Despite this experimentation with a variety of drugs, I still managed to maintain a 3.8 grade point average because by this time I really had a higher purpose in mind for my life and had refined the art of recreational drug use, by doing it very sparingly. When it came to hallucinogenic drugs one had better do it sparingly in order to preserve a modicum of sanity.

For the most part I also discovered that it was all either purely a waste of time or only really served the useful purpose of re-setting all the over stimulated stress circuits and fuses in my brain’s frontal lobe. I guess I was one of the lucky individuals who never had a “bad trip.”

Although there may have been some bona fide alteration of perception, I never really hallucinated nor ever had the over touted acid flashback phenomenon. Hallucinogenic drugs only served to give me a better appreciation of nature and would simply cause me to focus on natural objects with a sense of wonderment at the complexity, the beauty and the mystery of time, space and creation.

On one Mescaline trip spent at the beach, I spent hours looking at a hand full of sand and was able to see in it everything from the ocean tirelessly pounding away at rocky shores to the entire universe and the majesty of its creation.

The same experimental dabbling happened in the 1980s when everyone went crazy over cocaine. I tried it a few times but hated the effects it had on my sinuses. I also liked to sleep more than to be high all night, dressed in a leisure suit covering a NIk-Nik hand painted silk shirt and dancing like an idiotic dervish in a strobe lit discothèque; all in a usually fruitless quest to get laid. The paradox is that Cocaine never makes women horny. All it makes them want to do is dance all night or talk and giggle incessantly. Then by the time the drug wears off all they want to do is go to sleep. So do you, if only to get the pounding disco echoes or the yapping feminine chatter out of your eardrums.

The Studio 54 scene was not for me. My biology simply dictates that I am a day person and not a night crawler.

Principally beginning the year after I graduated, Big Funk went on to become a legendary social center, meeting place and party palace for the left wing hippies of Duke University. Then as each tenant would move on to bigger and better things after graduation any new prospective tenant would have to be approved by those left behind.

It became a unique fraternity house in its own peculiar way, giving anyone who lived there a special kind of personal fraternal legacy, which was memorialized in a photo staged by Arthur the year after I left for Medical School. If you lived there, you qualified to receive a copy of the picture.

Eventually, the neighborhood improved and the house is now a single-family dwelling. I spoke to Arthur once about a sentimental visit he paid to it when he visited Duke with his son, being graciously allowed a walk through by the tenant or owner. He listened patiently as the tenant told him about the history of the house and about its legendary name, after which he said:

  • I know. I’m the person who named it.

Ultimately, Big Funk was purchased for renovation by a man who wrote a news article about it, after a former tenant who had moved up the block presented the new custodian with his own personal copy of the photo and a brief historical outline. The article speaks to the fact of the house’s historical legend, as well as the intention to display the photo, which being faithfully passed on will now reside forever on one of its newly constructed interior walls.

Even Big Funk, it seems became subsumed by Yuppie money and was forced to capitulate to the changing times.

Speaking for myself, I had come full circle since my freshman fraternity rejections and had unknowingly become a charter member of the most legendary off campus house in Duke history. Great! That and a dollar twenty-five will buy a nice cup of coffee. And even though today I still own a Big Funk Charter Member commemorative photo, the only thing I really remain curious about is whatever happened to the famous Big Funk barrel. The last time I spoke to Arthur, I forgot to ask him.

The one thing I do not have to concern myself with is what portion of that barrel, since 1969, has usually been reserved for the notoriously hapless New York Jets football team: middle to bottom.

big-funk

 

 

BIG FUNK

(Beta Iota Gamma   Phi Upsilon Nu Kappa)

 

The Psychedelic Sophomore ( 1967)

Room to Move 

When I did not get accepted by a fraternity, I interviewed with one of the “Independent” dormitory houses, Canterbury. There was essentially no difference between this situation and a Fraternity house, except for the fact that there is no Greek translation for the word Canterbury. On occasion, we would host a rowdy drinking party and for the special campus Homecoming weekend of 1967, I invited a girl from my old high school class to come down for this affair.

My roommate at the time, Ernie, was a “good old boy” from West Virginia who happened to be away for that weekend visiting his fiancée. Ernie was abstemious when it came to drugs but did imbibe liberally in Wild Turkey whiskey or Jim Beam. Despite my efforts to point out to him that alcohol was a drug too, I could never get him to smoke a joint. He was as thin as a reed, crew cut, geeky, studious, emotionally passive and wore thick black glasses that were so heavy his cadaverous face could not support them. Thus, they constantly fell down over his nose, but not intentionally like the purposeful idiotic moniker of Whoopi Goldberg.

Ernie’s characteristics caused Arthur to torture him mercilessly about growing his hair long or smoking pot. The verbal bombardment was so intensely constant and tormenting; I thought it might have had something to do with Ernie deciding to get married at the end of sophomore year, just to escape.

Ernie met his bride earlier in the year at a Coed import function. These events were social mixers whereby the University bussed in a few hundred or so single women from another unisex college, being something the higher powers felt obliged to do as compensation for Duke’s 4:1 ratio of men to women. The Administration must have considered this the best method for keeping raging male hormones under a modicum of control and confined to campus.

Ernie said it was love at first sight. More likely it was a conveniently desperate way to distance himself from the cabal that was trying to break him down and corrupt him into subscribing to our own bad habits. It was also probably the first woman who had ever really given him the time of day. In any event, Ernie was away the weekend I imported my date. Dorm restrictions at the time were still relatively puritanical and prohibited female guests from overnight stays. Perhaps if the rules had been more flexible, my former girlfriend M. who had dumped me, may have stayed on a little longer because we could have had sex on a bed instead of under a bush. But if discovered, and then prosecuted, overnight female activity could lead to immediate expulsion.

Not really knowing what I was going to do with my weekend date, as well as being unable to afford a motel room, I secreted her in my dorm room. But I had not planned ahead, so when in the middle of the night she had to urinate, I made her pee in an ice bucket, which I then emptied in the common bathroom down the hall. This was all the more risqué since because she was so stubbornly prudish, if I had been expelled over the incident, it would also have been with the added insult of not even getting laid.

Unfortunately, I had no advance warning that in her age group she was the planet’s last living virgin who was romantically saving herself for marriage. More amazingly, she was not even a Catholic, which as a group I mistakenly thought were the only ones still interested such nonsense. I found out later in life that Irish Catholic girls tend to be randomly promiscuous; whereas the Italian Catholics tend to look in your wallet first; but not for condoms.

She did have acne, which led me to believe that my Aunt Jean’s opinion on the subject was probably not at all accurate, as Jean had once opined that the amount of acne a person had was either directly or inversely proportional to how much sex they were or were not having. In the case of a girl it meant she was a sperm filled slut and in the case of a celibate boy it meant that his was backing up to the point of overflow.

If nothing else the episode inspired a desire to move off campus to the relative freedom of private housing. That way I could freely smoke pot, drink beer, and have women over without worrying about a Dorm monitor checking up on my bad habits; just as Ernie had fled to the relative safety of wedded bliss, and to avoid the pressured risk of becoming just another pot smoking hippie. This is not withstanding the possibility of Ernie having risked the pressure of an altogether different kind of nagging.

As the year progressed, Arthur began making plans to drop out of school, go to San Francisco with his girlfriend from New Jersey, and live the dream inspired by the writings of Jack Kerouac that were vividly described in his novel, the Dharma Bums. Arthur had already saturated himself with novels such as The Air Conditioned Nightmare and Naked Lunch, all of which he encouraged me to read because he thought they would help with my overall “enlightenment.”

It wasn’t until years later after becoming a physician that I even remotely began to understand William Burroughs paranoid delusions, while he traveled the world junked out on heroin or every other drug or drug combination he could lay his hands on. When it was originally published Naked Lunch was considered to be so obscene it was “Banned in Boston” and went on to be a milestone case for the right of free speech. Burroughs, a bona fide multi-drug junkie who was heir to the Burroughs Adding Machine Company, was living the life of leisure until the day he decided to play William Tell with his wife and shot her in the head with a pistol instead of hitting the apple. In those days even if you were a celebrity, you could not get away with that kind of thing whereas today he probably could have capitalized on the episode by selling “Heroin Spoils Your Aim” tee shirts.

Arthur, who had already imbibed, had been able to procure some mescaline and LSD from his California connections and then suggested, or more like harangued that one Saturday we should try some of it. He perseverated in his Priest-like mystification of the psychedelic drug experience regaling anecdotal tales of people taking them and either going crazy or losing their minds, while constantly prepping me to remember that no matter what I was thinking during a drug trip it was still only a temporary state of mind.

It would also be part of the ritual that we had to take it early on a Saturday so that any effects would be gone by Monday when classes resumed. He also made it clear that he would be in control of all aspects of the activities during our “trip’ and basically scared the shit out of me to the point I wondered why I was even going to try the stuff.

Mescaline was to be the first drug of choice because of its mystical connection to the American Indians, who had obviously learned the true way to coexist with nature many centuries before; thus in all probability being the original hippies, so to speak, had learned I use it as a peaceful connection to nature.  As such it was touted as a means contributing to my own overall enlightened cerebral liberation.

When the mystical Saturday morning finally arrived, Arthur, the guru, decided we were going to take Mescaline.

The entire angst of the pre-drug experience was soon left behind when we spent the entire day listening to music of Art’s choice while I read Thor Comic books. Nothing happened of any consequence except for the fact of my complete immersion in the comic scene whose characters seemed to vibrantly come to life as they leap off the page. This was all the more interesting since I had never liked Thor to begin with. Spending about eight hours reading the same stupid stories over and over again while repeatedly saying “wow’ at the spectacularly vivid living colors that saturated each page in the book; I enjoyed the fact that each comic strip actually did seem to become animated. No real enlightenment and certainly no acute psychosis occurred, while to this day I do not believe I have ever read Thor comics again.

Having passed the hurdle of the first experience, we tried the drug a few more times during the year, with each experience being nothing more than an acute accentuation of ordinary everyday events or stimuli along with a proclivity to be oblivious to the stresses and strains of the world around us. It made for a nice escape from the rigors of study or the angst of a foreign war, as though both of these things were so onerous we had to get away from them. Unfortunately, the drugs also contributed to a general sense of ennui and lack of ambitious desire to do any homework at all, which was beginning to reflect poorly on my pre-med curriculum.

Things came to a head with Part II of Sophomore Physics.

At that time the pre-med students were put into the same program as the engineering students who were significantly more gifted in math and it was not until years later that the pre-med class was segregated following belated recognition by the University that the course was just too hard for “want-to-be-doctors.”

Left Hand Rule, Right Hand Rule, First and Second Laws of Thermodynamics, Gobbledygook, with progressively more complicated formulas or concepts I could not grasp nor had any real desire to actually comprehend. There simply did not seem to be any real practical value to any of it. Having studied little or none of it, I pulled an all-nighter and showed up for the final exam prepared to at least try for enough partial credit to pass it by memorizing as many formulas as I possibly could.

I already knew from Chemistry that if one at least writes down a litany of formulas, the professor thinks you know something to the point that even if you don’t get the answer correct, or even get to a final answer at all, he will let some positive credit points leak out of his pen, which added together at the end will get you over the flunk threshold.

One of my friends in Medical School later told me that to that point his entire academic career had been based on the “Principle of Partial Credit,” a concept rooted in the fact that one does not have to ever know it all or ever get it all right. One only has to know enough of something about everything, as opposed to a modern day news commentator who excels in knowing nothing about everything or everything about nothing. One of the main features of this approach is to at least try to put down some formulation for each question with the most dreaded fault being to leave a question entirely blank. Cardinal sin. Definite F.

Forget about science. The First Law of Partial Credits also served me well throughout the rest of my academic career.

But getting back to Physics, on the day of the test I was nauseated by the sight of all those Engineering students who showed up with two slide rules in their belts akin to mathematical six shooters, which they then whipped out at the starting bell, flew furiously in their sweaty little hands, then at least fifteen minutes before the closing bell they leaped up, turned in their papers, then headed for the exits with all-knowing little gloats and smirking smiles on their effete cherubic faces. I both envied and loathed them and sometimes wished they would have psychotic breaks or blow their brains out with little homemade cannons like the Engineering student had done. Instead of committing those two Cardinal Sins, perhaps I should have just applied myself to study harder instead.

Then at the “public posting of the test results ceremony” I sweated bullets. Summer was coming nigh and I knew I would not be able to face the non-psychedelic music at home if I had failed. So when I saw a D next to my name, I yelled for joy right in front of a glowering exasperated proctor who had little appreciation for my elation.

  • You mean you’re happy with a D? That’s despicable.
  • You bet. Because the D in “I Passed” is silent. But not the F in Flunked.

All I cared about was that I would not have to repeat a semester in Physics hell although the minimally passing grade, with my gleeful underachieving reaction, was causing the proctor to nearly pass out from sheer disgust.

Unfortunately this D did not help my GPA, which had dropped from a 3.6 to a 2.6. For a high school straight-A student, I knew some serious explanations would have to be invented when these final grades made their way through the postal service and finally to my parent’s mail box at home.

Reverting to false hope by appealing to religion, I said a Rosary for the miracle of the report card ending up in the dead letter bin at Kansas City’s Postal depot.

 

 

hang over

–The wages of sin is bad grades–

 

It’s so easy to slip

It’s so easy to fall

And let your memory drift

And do nothing at all

(George Kibbee)