Marzipan, Mascarpone & Mairzy Dotes

jumbled thoughts...uh whats the difference between mascarpone and marzipan? Thats whats happens when you do an abrupt food seque...moving from Pacifco's and salsa to rich zinfandels and roasted duck salad in minutes....the mind is overcome with sensation, unable to process everything...no place for sensory palate spillage....it was at that moment that I proudly informed everyone that the next verse of "Mairzy Dotes" had something to do with "marzipan, pluto pan and asteroids unsightly"....in fact I was sure of it.... four double lattes into the next morning, the ambien hallucinations were subsiding and the gordian knot of the marzipan lyrics began to unfold. Or untied. Something like that. Whatever. Back in 1972 or so, whacked out on acid, Chris Muir had made up the alternative marzipan lyrics to "Mairzy Dotes" and those lyrics had put themselves in storage in my brain. Stored in some sort of unknown cereberal attic only daring to show themselves after 34 years in hiding...apparently taking advantage of the temporary altered mind state induced by the roasted duck salad to once again manifest themselves. Of course I wasn't sure thats what happened in 1972, but thats the thing about memories, especially acid induced memories; you can't google 1972 acid trips to make sure you got the details right...there is no archived web page that says that was the night in Santa Cruz with the clear light acid we got from Sam...no hyperlinks to the number of times we thought we saw god or the number of times we giggled for hours about our ga--shoes, our cheek muscles sore from laughing...no we are left to our own flawed devices to reconstruct our memories. I'm sure there is a deeper discussion here, something about if our memories are not are memories, then who are we? But I really don't care about the deeper discussion. It's simply not fun. In retrospect, the only acid trip that remains fairly lucid in my mind was the night I decided to quit. No more acid for Mikey. July 4th, 1976. Yes, the bi-centennial. I was on the top of an apartment building on Stanyan St in San Francisco. Close to the Haight. Marty Anderson's apartment building. I looked up at the sky and said to myself, "I quit". Interesting in that there was no concious contemplation of quitting prior to that moment. An unforeseen quantum shift in my personal decision making. Some part of me was adamant that 5 years was enough and it was time to quit. Well I was fairly sucessful at quitting LSD...never quite had much of a desire or curiosity after that, but that roasted duck salad...they have rehab for that???? Maybe an 30 day program? Or a roasted duck 12 step program?..."Hi my name is Michael...." Somebody check on that, will ya?...In the interim, I have to go find the rest of the imaginary lyrics to Mairzy Dotes..."Hello operator?...yes, I need the number for a 1972 acid trip."